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IN THE 

SEVEN MOUNTAINS 


By HENRY W. SHOEMAKER 




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JN THE SEVEN MOUNTAINS Photo by S. W. Smith 


/n Che jSeven JWamtains 

Legends collected in Central Pennsylvania 

hy 

J^enry "W. jShoeinaker 

•MVcsiclent of the Altoona Tribune 

Here began* * * the happiness of my life, 

•Here passed 

The peaceful but rapid moments 
which gave me the right to sa^ 

?••••! have lived. J. X'RousseaiL . 



Reading Pcnns}^lvania 
Published The Bright Printing Company? 
J9:J3 


C0P3; righted all rights reserved 






• e 

« 9 « 



DEC 3i 13i3 


r' 

©CI.A85895G 


BY THE SAME AUTHOR : 


/ 


Wild Life in Central Pennsylvania (1903) 
Pennsylvania Mountain Stories (1907) 

More Pennsylvania Mountain Stories (1912) 
The Indian Steps (1912) 

Tales of the Bald Eagle Mountains (1912) 
Susquehanna Legends (1913) 


Immaterial Verses (1898) 

Random Thoughts (1899) 
Pennsylvania Mountain Verses (1907) 
Elizabethan Days (1912) 


Legend of Penn’s Cave (pamphlet) (1907) 

Story of the Sulphur Spring (pamphlet) (1912) 

Stories of Pennsylvania Animals (pamphlet) (1913) 
Stories of Great Pennsylvania Hunters (pamphlet) (1913) 


INVOCATION 


Oh, tell me are you, Hills divine. 

Named for the Seven Mountains of the Rhine, 
Thy gorge with Penn’s Creek bursting through 
Suggests the Drachenfels anew — 

And your vast tracts of spruce and pine 
Reach to the cliffs like Ehrenbreitsteiu. 

And each pale crag of cold, conglomerate stone 
Stands ’gainst the skyline like a castle lone. 
From which the robber baron’s trail 
Led to where travelers toured the vale: 

Here the black wolf on midnights cold 
Crept down to prey on peaceful fold. 

Where Rhineland slopes are shawelled in vine 
Here are stumps garlanded with red woodbine. 
And the frail ghosts of pool and rill. 

That flit to tell their stories ill. 

Are paler reflections of a shadowy line. 

Which gave the dark mysteries to the Rhine. 
Here did the German pilgrim And 
In thy deep heart, a peace of mind. 

Surveying your cloud-bathed summits grand 
The soothing dream of fatherland; 

The High Top, Broad Face, Knob, and Dome 
W aked in his breast the sense of home. 

And gave him courage and fresh life 
To wage again his tireless strife, 

Forget life’s thanklessness and woes. 

And “make the desert like the rose,” 

Thy torrents, caves, and mystic heights 
The epic of a nation writes. 

Oh, tell me are you. Hills Divine, 

Named for the Seven Mountains of the Rhine? 


xiii 














EXPLANATORY PREFACE 


OST of the materials for the legends 
contained in this volume were 
1%/r collected last April, when, in com- 
pany with his friend, Mr. John H. 
Chatham, of McElhattan, Pa., the 
author enjoyed a driving trip 
through portions of the Seven Mountains and 
adjacent territory. The drive was made in a liv- 
ery carriage hired at Milroy, and the driver was 
Mr. J. S. Hoar, of that place. For once the writer 
found the right man in the right place. The 
driver quickly understood the purpose of the 
trip, and mapped out the route so that it would 
touch scores of localities of historic or legendary 


XV 



interest. In this way the writer was able to 
traverse many picturesque regions, including 
some of the remoter little valleys, and learn from 
the old people the traditions connected with 
them. He was so pleased that upon his return 
he wrote an editorial for the Altoona Tribune 
called “Eldorado Found,” in which he described 
the beauty and charm of the scenes visited. 
Though he had previously toured the Seven 
Mountains on a number of occasions, they ap- 
pealed to him most deeply and lastingly on this 
latest journey. 

It was then that he conceived the idea of com- 
piling a volume of legends dealing solely with 
the region. In his previous books were a number 
of legends from the Seven Mountains, most of 
them being the best known traditions, but on 
the trip last April he was fortunate enough to 
secure enough additional ones to compose this 
book. As in his previous volumes, the compiler 
has endeavored to transcribe the legends exactly 
as he heard them from the old folks. For this 
reason they are less of a picture of life in the 
mountains than they are of the supernatural and 
legendary elements. It is difficult to infuse one ’s 
own point of view without lessening the effect of 


XVI 


ghostly and tragic occurrences. The stories may 
be lacking in descriptions of scenery, and the 
manner of living, but an effort is made to atone 
for this by the unusual character of the legends. 
In this respect much is left to be desired, as the 
ancient mountaineers have a directness and 
charm of speech which no writer, unless he has a 
stenographic memory, can attempt to reproduce. 
As many of the stories have happened “within 
the memory of man,’’ it has been necessary in 
many cases to change the names of persons and 
places, to transpose localities and dates. The 
writer has done this reluctantly, indeed less than 
he should have in a few instances, but if some of 
the sources of his information notice confusion 
in their stories, they must understand the reason. 
In other cases where the true names are used, it 
is hoped that no offense will be taken, for cer- 
tainly far from such is meant. 

The book has been prepared with the idea of 
preserving the ancient traditions, especially 
those dealing with ghosts and Indians, for the 
benefit of future generations. The number of 
Indian stories in the Seven Mountains is amaz- 
ingly large; the writer feels that he has barely 
pricked the surface with the half dozen herein 


XV 11 


presented. He trusts that other writers and in- 
vestigators, with ample time and research, will 
save the rich mine which remains from passing 
into oblivion. 

The Seven Mountains is undoubtedly one of 
the most picturesque and romantic regions in 
Eastern America ; the very name, with its quaint, 
old-world ring, like the Black Forest in Potter 
County, is fascinating; modern improvements 
and materialism have passed by some of its 
forest-hidden corners, pioneer types still linger, 
ancient customs and language are preserved; 
wild life, such as the panther and the black wolf, 
made their last stand there; along Pine Creek 
and parts of Penn’s Creek is a wilderness of 
virgin timber. Taking the wonderful Bare 
Meadows, in which still stand the rare red spruce 
trees in considerable numbers as a beginning, 
a traveler can find the region an ideal vacation 
ground. The climate is marvelous, the scenery 
easily the finest in all Pennsylvania; the old 
traditions are everywhere obtainable. Haunted 
houses, Indian paths, and fishing and hunting 
grounds abound; small wonder that the writer, 
feeling the thrill of the everliving past hailed 
it as Eldorado Found ! Yet it has to be seen to 

xviii 


be properly appreciated; these following pages 
attempt to tell some of the legends, but they can- 
not reproduce the wonders of the scenery. 

The effect produced upon the writer on his 
first visit to the Seven Mountains fifteen years 
ago has been as stated above, augmented by each 
succeeding visit. Though the forest fires and 
lumbermen are busy devastating the verdant 
heights, and the fauna is decreasing, the story 
stands out all the more boldly, as strong and im- 
perishable as the High Top or Tussey Knob. 
Fortunate indeed is a commonwealth to possess 
such a pristine wonderland; it will grow in ap- 
preciation as the mercenary, mechanical modern 
life wrecks the altars of the primitive and the 
picturesque. 

The writer wishes to take this opportunity to 
sincerely thank the public, and the newspapers 
of Central Pennsylvania for their generous re- 
ception of his previous books. Their friendly 
words have furnished him the incentive to pursue 
the task. To Mr. S. W. Smith, proprietor of 
Centre Reporter, Centre Hall, Pa., is due many 
thanks for securing the splendid illustrations used 
in this book. The attempt has been made to show 
the spiritual wealth of this beloved country; its 


XIX 


physical wealth having been so well exploited for 
so long. He hopes that this book will receive some- 
thing of the same treatment accorded to its prede- 
cessors. It is difficult to make people interested in 
places and legends which they see daily or know by 
heart; the fondest wish the writer has is that 
fifty years hence an active concern may be 
aroused for the localities mentioned. Meanwhile 
the friendships made, the kind words heard, the 
happy memories, the aspirations kindled, are 
ample enough recompense for his efforts. He can 
truthfully say that through these mountains, 
forests and rivers, which he has loved with a full 
understanding, he has tasted deeply of life. 

HENRY W. SHOEMAKER. 

At Sea, August 30, 1913. 





1 . 

IN THE SEVEN MOUNTAINS. 

(A Story of the Vale of Petersburg.) 

EWIS DORMAN, the panther 
killer of the Seven Mountains, 
is not the only celebrity 
buried under the carpet of 
myrtle, beneath the shaggy- 
boughed white pines, in the 
ancient cemetery at Dorman- 
town. In an obscure corner, 
at the foot of the hill, where the ground is in- 
clined to be marshy, where the peepers linger 

until far into June, rests all that is mortal of 

21 




Indian Joe. An unchiseled block of mountain 
brownstone was placed at the head of the grave, 
a smaller block at the foot, but even this was 
not done until fully two years after the unevent- 
ful funeral. Perhaps no name was cut on the 
headstone because folks had forgotten — if they 
ever knew — what Indian Joe’s real name was — 
so left him to rest anonymously. 

When the Indians and half-breeds retired 
from the Seven Mountains their sole residium 
was this one sturdy specimen — he was about 
nine years old when persons first recollected him 
as attached to the Delette family. Whether he 
had been left there by his parents when they re- 
sponded to the allurements of the reservation on 
the Allegheny River, or had wandered out of 
the forest into their midst, was a mystery pro- 
found. The nearest neighbors to these dwellers 
in the secluded little valley at the foot of the 
Petersburg were too busy clearing new ground 
and killing wolves to care to inquire, besides they 
lived five miles away, and distance lessens curios- 
ity. From this inconspicuous beginning the In- 
dian youth became an integral part of the Del- 
ette household. The old couple were childless. 


and were it not that two nephews from Lewis- 
town visited them at regular intervals, Indian 
Joe might have become their heir. Wlien he was 
fifteen old J acob Delette died ; three years later 
his wife followed him to the grave. The two 
burly nephews swooped down and took posses- 
sion ; Indian J oe was sent adrift. 

When the old man died the young redskin’s 
sagacity asserted itself. He saw what awaited 
him, and made preparations for the future. Un- 
known to his benefactress, he built himself a one- 
roomed cabin near a spring on the mountain 
side, probably half a mile above the Delette 
farmstead. It was constructed piece by piece, 
from logs, slabs, mud and mortar. ^‘It’s my 
hunting cabin,” proudly said the boy when a 
curious old trapper from the other side of the 
mountain — his name was Cephas Zettle — sur- 
prised him sitting in front of it on a stump in 
stolid meditation, one Sunday afternoon in June. 
Cephas rather liked the boy, and contrived to 
visit him from time to time. The Indian ex- 
plained that he only visited the shanty during 
leisure hours, that it would make Mother Delette 
unhappy if she knew of its existence, and Cephas 


understood right away. The old trapper taught 
the Indian how to shoot, the secrets of woodcraft 
and trapping, of which he had been singularly 
ignorant — but he proved an apt pupil. 

After the passing of Mother Delette the Indian 
took up his permanent abode in the cabin, and 
decided to live by hunting and fishing. The 
nephews gave him nothing, but in the scrap heap 
made by the men’s wives in the “housecleaning” 
after the funeral feast, he found some broken 
knives, forks, cups and plates, also an ancient 
clock, with a picture of a stage coach painted 
upon the glass which covered the pendulum. 
Indian Joe was honest, he never took a thing 
from the old couple — ^he began housekeeping 
with conscience clear. The neighbors who lived 
nearest to the Delette farm were named Osmer, 
they were the earliest settlers in the Vale of the 
Petersburg. Theirs was a great, long, unevenly 
roofed manse, built of logs, plastered and white- 
washed, and enlarged every decade or so, as the 
family grew. There seemed to be a warp where 
each new part of the roofs joined, the ridge line 
presented a bold appearance, zig-zagged and 
high chimneyed, outlined against the pink even- 


ing sky — for the house stood on a slight rise. 
It was a doleful place at night, as the ice pond 
was filled with frogs, which vied with the crick- 
ets and katydids in drowning the uncertain tink- 
ling of the sheep-hells. Isaac Osmer and his 
father who had been known as “old Isaac” had 
cleared a farm of a hundred acres, a big planta- 
tion in those days in the Seven Mountains. 
Cephas Zettle had helped them cut the giant 
pines and pile them in heaps and hum them, 
until he tired of the sheer monotony of the task, 
and became a mountain idler or trapper. Though 
big game was plentiful he had never killed any- 
thing fiercer than a wildcat ; deer and birds were 
his specialty. 

The summer that Mother Delette died the Os- 
mer harvest was unusually heavy. Hands were 
few and far between ; Isaac Osmer urged Cephas 
to help “just for old times ^ sake.” He refused, 
but said he would bring over the Indian hoy — 
Indian Joe — who used to live with the Delettes; 
that he was a likely lad, very anxious for work. 
He said all this without first consulting the hoy, 
hut he fancied he knew his mettle. In this he 
was correct, as Indian Joe rejoiced at the chance 


to get to farm work again; especially as he was 
promised that part pay would be in real money. 
All he had gotten from the Delettes was board 
and clothes, with a few coppers on nights of 
church entertainments. But as once a year was 
the oftenest he had ever gotten to meeting, he 
had almost forgotten what money looked like. 
Indian Joe reported at the harvest field and 
handled the cradle like a veteran. Like most of 
his race he developed early. At eighteen he was 
splendidly built and muscled. Dinner for all 
hands was served in the out-kitchen, and a dozen 
hungry workers at noon began a bounteous 
repast. 

It was here that the Indian met Gabriella Os- 
mer, or “Gabs’^ as she Was generally called. He 
had no recollection of ever having seen her be- 
fore, but she said she had seen him on two occa- 
sions at Bethel Church on the north or “ other 
side of Mt. Petersburg. As it was there he had at- 
tended on the few occasions he had been to 
church, it must be so. Gabs was very gracious 
to the young stranger, but the same might be 
said of all the mountain boys who sat at the 
table. Farmer Osmer’s wife was also very at- 


tentive, asking him frequently how he liked the 
dinner, how he liked the work. The Indian 
possessed a sensitive, appreciative nature, and 
smiled broadly all through the meal. This was 
unusual as his face was naturally serious, his 
eyes almost scowled. Gabs at this period was 
just past her sixteenth birthday, but like most 
persons of mixed stock, was well developed for 
her age. She was an ash blonde, with full blue 
eyes, black brows and lashes. She was rather 
above the medium height, in fact the tallest girl 
in the township, where most of the people were 
short, like the German peasants. 

That evening on his way back to the mountain, 
Indian Joe stopped at the Osmer well — it was a 
primitive affair operated with a pole — and was 
having some difficulty in mastering it. Gabs 
heard him, and came out of the summer kitchen. 
She asked him how far he had to walk to his 
cabin. He replied that it was about five miles, 
adding facetiously that “the walking was good.^’ 
“Why don’t you stop with us during harvest?” 
inquired the girl. The Indian stammered some- 
thing, but while so doing Gab’s mother, who had 
been watching the proceedings, came out and 


renewed the invitation in stronger tones. She 
was shrewd enough to foresee that if the stal- 
wart Indian was made comfortable, he would 
become a “standby,’^ a person much needed on 
the big, uneven farm. The Indian quickly de- 
cided to remain, and followed the two women 
to the kitchen porch where he carefully laid 
down his cradle and whetstone. Isaac Osmer 
and his three sons, boys a few years older than 
the Indian, made the supper very enjoyable for 
the stranger, and before dark he felt himself a 
member of the household. 

The farmer, his wife and the boys retired 
early, leaving Gabs and the Indian to sit on the 
little front porch for an hour before going to 
bed. The young Indian had never been noticed 
by girls before. Those who had seen him at 
Bethel kept away from him as the story was 
told that he was a poor beggar kept by the 
bounty of old Father and Mother Delette. Since 
occupying his shanty on the slope of Petersburg 
he had never attended meeting, consequently had 
not spoken to or seen any women. But the manly 
instinct was there, he was ready for love, he 
possessed all the romance of his race. Gabs 


asked him where he was horn; he could not re- 
member. He had been told that his parents 
were basket-makers and lived on Poe Creek, they 
had traded at Millheim, they had moved away, 
leaving him temporarily with the Delettes. They 
had never returned, no doubt had died in the 
North. Mother Delette once told him that 
Southern Indians could never thrive north of 
where the Coffee tree grew. Gabs seemed much 
interested in him, drawing out all that was best 
in the untouched mine of his nature. He had 
actually courage enough to squeeze her pretty 
hand when they said goodnight. The old stairs 
creaked unsympathetically, as each with a flick- 
ering tallow dip in hand, they climbed to their 
dreary bedrooms. 

It was in this way that Indian Joe became a 
fixture in the Osmer household. He did not 
abandon his cabin, he had too much concern in 
the future for that, but whenever he worked 
for the family he spent his nights there. In the 
autumn he was absent most of the time hunting, 
for some reason his ardor for the chase had 
quickened. It is said that Indians always de- 
sired to excel as huntsmen when they were in 


love. Every few days, however, he would ap- 
pear at the farmhouse to give Gabs some speci- 
mens of his skill. One day it was a string of 
rabbits, another a string of ruffed grouse, an- 
other a string of grey squirrels ; once he brought 
in a heath-hen, one of the last ever killed in the 
Seven Mountains where they had once been so 
abundant. His big, deep-set eyes would flash 
when he told of the pack of wolves that he had 
been chasing for several weeks. They circled 
round and round the slopes of the conelike 
j^ersburg, gradually he was rounding them up 
on the summit, he would annihilate them yet. 

‘ H ’d love a wolf-skin as a mat in my room, to 
put beside the bed,” said Gabs enthusiastically. 
“I know several girls who have them, they are 
so nice to step on when one gets out of bed on 
cold mornings.” 

This aroused the Indian’s anxiety to pro- 
cure a wolf. He absented himself for three 
days, taking wdth him his own hound Salem 
and farmer Osmer’s hound Kube. When 
he returned, he was minus the two dogs, but car- 
ried three large wolf-hides, one of a male, two 
of females. He told how he had chased a pack 


of six to the cone of Petersburg, where in the 
narrow space, he had attacked them with his 
hounds and rifle. The wolves fought valiantly; 
all six were hit, but three got away, though they 
tore the big dogs to pieces in the melee. This 
rather dulled the young nimrod's sense of tri- 
umph, but he soon cheered up when he found 
that Isaac Osmer took the loss of his hound 
lightly. Gabs was delighted, and danced, and 
clapped her hands for joy. She was naturally 
of serious mien herself, he had never seen her so 
exhuberant. The hides were treated with eggs, 
cornmeal and water, the Indian method, and 
hung on the wall of the summer kitchen, now de- 
serted, fur inward, to cure. It was a great 
achievement, especially as on his first trip to 
Lewistown, long planned, he would go to the 
Courthouse and collect twelve dollars in bounties. 

On cold winter nights, when there was snow, 
the Indian remained overnight with his bene- 
factors. It was then that he noticed Gabs ’ fond- 
ness for books, which emphasized his own in- 
ability to read. No one had ever suggested his 
going to school, and if there had been any truant 
officers in the Vale of Petersburg, they would 


not have molested him, as an Indian was con- 
sidered best uneducated. Gabs liked to show him 
the pictures in the old leather-bound books, to 
read aloud. There was one book he liked best of 
all. It was called “Orations of Celebrated 
American Indian Chieftains. ’ ’ It was embel- 
lished with crude wood-cuts of Logan, Cornplant, 
Farmer’s Brother, Eed Jacket, Searouady, and 
other loquacious warriors, and had been pub- 
lished in Philadelphia in 1801. Logan’s high- 
flown perorations pleased the young red- 
man most; the victim of Captain Michael Cre- 
sap’s regulars, was fond of talking of the so- 
called “white man’s honor,” and the apparently 
established ‘ ‘ redman ’s honor. ’ ’ The word honor 
had hitherto been unknown in Indian Joe’s vo- 
cabulary, now he liked to use it on all occasions. 
He liked the sound of it, it was the theme that ran 
through all his conversation. He recalled hav- 
ing heard the old Delettes talking about John 
Logan, the oratorical chief’s younger and more 
sensible brother, of his spring not far from 
Keedsville. His ancestors had probably hunted 
and fought with Shickalemy, the father of the 
two Logans; it gave a glamor, a prestige to his 


personality. Since hearing this book read, he 
was no longer a lone Indian, he was the embodi- 
ment of a noble and high-principled race who 
had ruled the Seven Mountains for centuries. 
Gradually old memories took concrete form, he 
began to imagine he could remember his parents. 
Scores of legends rehabilitated themselves, so 
that he could entertain the Osmer family for 
whole evenings with Indian ghost and hunting 
stories. 

He now began to feel himself worthy of Gabs ; 
some day he would tell her that he had always 
loved her, surely she seemed to care for him. She 
apparently liked to be with him, especially alone, 
and when he had made bold to kiss her, she had 
offered no resistance. He felt he could restrain 
his passion until he became more prosperous, he 
would soon have twenty dollars ‘‘laid aside. 
Just a week before Christmas, on a clear, cold 
day, when the snow was pretty well blown 
away, farmer Osmer harnessed the team to the 
big wagon; they would all drive twenty-four 
miles to Lewistown, see the sights and do some 
shopping. Indian Joe was of course invited ; he 
had never seen the seat of justice, and could col- 


lect his bounties for the wolf scalps. Osmer, his 
wife, and their youngest child Katie, a little girl 
of eight, rode on the box seat; boards were laid 
across the body of the wagon, on which sat Gabs 
and the Indian, also the three other boys, and 
the sweetheart of the oldest. Straw was piled 
copiously on the floor of the wagon — to keep 
their feet warm. Two of the wolf-hides were 
used as cushions on the driver ^s seat — Gabs had 
the other safe and sound in her room — and a big 
buffalo robe also covered the legs of those on 
the box seat. The start was made at five o ^clock 
in the morning, and they were at the county 
seat a few minutes past noon, the team was 
tied and fed in the alley back of the courthouse, 
which seemed a giant structure, a palace, to the 
open-mouthed Indian. A lunch had been brought 
along, so there was no delay after reaching town. 
Farmer Osmer had some business to attend to, he 
said, so he left his oldest son escort the Indian to 
the courthouse to collect the scalp money. The 
woman and the other boys visited various shops. 
One of the commissioners was at his desk, and 
agreed to the paying of the twelve dollars with- 
out much hesitation. “Eighty dollars in one 


year for wolf scalps is using up the county’s 
money pretty fast, but I guess we must rid the 
mountains of the blamed critters,” he remarked, 
as he signed the necessary requisitions. The 
treasurer paid the money in twelve bright Mexi- 
can dollars, which Indian Joe slipped into his 
outside coat pocket, and clinked with his hand, 
as he strode through the rotunda. 

He paused a minute on the top step, surveying 
the square, which seemed of immense propor- 
tions, and the many elegant mansions; he was 
as good as any man in Lewistown to-day. The 
lad who accompanied him was glad to excuse 
himself to return to his sweetheart, so the Indian 
was left to his own devices for a few minutes. 
He had previously noticed a book store, — it 
handled high-class goods — as the members of the 
old Scotch-Irish aristocracy had an insatiable 
thirst for reading — and soon found himself with- 
in it. The old bookseller, Jabez Boal, with his 
shock of white hair, black suit and white tie 
came forward to serve him. He told him that 
he wanted a good book for a Christmas present. 
The bookseller held up a handsome volume bound 
in half morocco, it was almost as big as a family 


Bible, the cover was stamped with gold lettering, 
the edges were gilded. “This is the handsomest 
book we have this Christmas, ’ ’ he said. “ It is the 
poems of Reginald Heber ; it contains many beau- 
tiful pieces.^’ As he spoke he opened the pages 
at random, displaying some magnificent steel 
engravings. Indian Joe had never seen such a 
book in his life. It far excelled the old English 
Bible in the Osmer home, that had been printed 
in London in 1789, the engravings were far 
clearer, the paper and type better. He asked the 
price ; it was seven dollars. He did not hesitate 
a minute, but drew out seven of the twelve silver 
dollars, and handed them over to the bookseller. 
The old man wrapped the book carefully in 
brown paper, and handed it to him, together 
with a Christmas card, on which was a biblical 
quotation, and telling him that the card was a 
souvenir of his visit, to come again. 

Armed with his gift, Indian Joe strode out into 
the sunlight, the happiest young man in the 
world. He had given Gabs her wolf hide, now 
with the bounty money he had purchased her 
the handsomest book of the year. When the 
family party re-assembled that afternoon at three 


87 


0 ’clock, according to previous arrangement, 
Gabs noticed the heavy package that the young 
Indian carried, but made no comment. All the 
members of the party, excepting Isaac Osmer, 
carried bundles of some kind. Instead of the 
hilarity of the others, he wore a doleful, worried 
look. Indian Joe noticed this, and wondered 
what could be wrong. On the homeward drive 
the party talked and jested about their day in 
town, what they had seen, some telling of their 
purchases or acquaintances they had met, all but 
farmer Osmer, who was moody and taciturn. 
However, by the next morning he was all over 
his melancholy, and had many pleasant things to 
say concerning the trip. Mother Osmer and Gabs 
were proud of the fact that they got to the 
county seat twice a year; they visited Milroy a 
like number of times annually. In this they were 
more fortunate than some of the other moun- 
taineers, who, if they traveled to Lewistown once, 
and Milroy once, in twelve months, considered 
themselves fortunate. 

Christmas eve was ushered in by a party at 
the Osmer home — the rooms were prettily deco- 
rated with evergreens and hoUy-berries — and 


about a dozen neighbors were present. On that 
occasion the distribution of gifts took place. 
Gabs, who was overjoyed at the receipt of her 
handsome book of poems, presented Indian Joe 
with a hunting knife. It was of the best steel 
obtainable, and was something the young hunter 
had long wanted. ‘ ‘ It bad luck to give a knife 
unless you give a copper in return,^’ said old 
Cephas Zettle, who was one of the guests. The 
Indian did not have any coppers about him, so 
the old man handed one to the fair donor. Some 
of the persons present noticed the intimacy be- 
tween the young girl and the redman, and 
thought it strange that the Osmer family toler- 
ated it. Class distinctions were unknown in the 
Seven Mountains, at least among the farmers, 
but Indians were regarded as outcasts, unworthy 
of being regarded as human beings. They were 
held in less regard than negroes are in the big 
cities at the present time. “There are so many 
grand looking boys on the mountain it’s a wonder 
she fancies that black rascal,” said one woman 
as she was driven home; such is the way that 
those who accept hospitality invariably talk, no 
matter what their station. 


All through the winter the intimacy continued, 
even to the point of sitting up together, which in 
the backwoods is a sure sign of impending mat- 
rimony. Ostensibly they sat by the big kitchen 
fire to read the poems of Bishop Heber, but the 
pages never looked much thumbed the next morn- 
ings. In the springtime the Indian went away 
for a few days at a time trout-fishing, but always 
returned with a basket-full for Gabs. Once dur- 
ing the latter part of June he accompanied two 
young men from Lewistown, relatives of the 
family who now occupied the old Delette farm, 
on a fishing excursion to the headwaters of 
Panther Creek. The trip lasted nearly a week, 
and the three lads, all about the same age, had a 
merry time camping in the virgin forest. Among 
the ferns near the camp the Indian found a mam- 
moth elk horn. It seemed in good condition, 
though it must have lain there some years, as 
the last known elk had disappeared from the 
region almost beyond the memory of the genera- 
tion. It would be a fine relic for Gabs, thought 
the young redman, so he stowed it away care- 
fully. 


When the party broke up, the Indian lover 
could not cover ground fast enough to meet his 
sweetheart. When he reached his cabin he 
unstrung his trout, some of them twenty inches 
long, for they were caught in a “virgin’’ branch 
of the creek that had never been fished before, 
and packed them with wild grape leaves in a 
neat basket of his own making. He artistically 
fitted the elk horn as a handle, although the ends 
extended much more than the basket’s length, 
and with heart thumping hard, hurried along his 
well-worn wood path towards the Osmer manse. 
It was late in the afternoon — ^in the Golden 
Hour — ^when he reached there, the mother was 
sitting on a bench beneath the big Coffee tree 
near the summer kitchen, with her ironing table 
before her. She did not smile as the enthusias- 
tic young Indian drew near, but her manner was 
gentle. 

“Where’s Gabs?” he eagerly inquired, not 
waiting to receive her greeting. “I’ve forty 
giant trout in this basket for her, and I found 
this elkhorn in the woods. ’ ’ 

The mother looked at him critically, replying 
“Gabs went to the county seat with her father 


4i 


early this morning. I don’t expect her back 
much before midnight, her father had a lot of 
business to transact. ’ ’ 

There was something unnatural in the woman’s 
manner, something disquieting to his sensitive 
nature. Unlettered savage he might be, but he 
was more intuitive, more psychic than most 
gentlemen of culture. He felt something was 
wrong, he could not bear to stay to find out what 
it was. 

“Give these things to her when she returns,” 
he faltered, and then with a forced smile and a 
“goodbye” he turned on his heel, and disap- 
peared out the brushy pathway. 

He kept his distance for twenty-four hours, 
and then came back, as he had promised to help 
get in the hay. When he appeared at the barn he 
noticed how happy Isaac Osmer seemed, how full 
of fun were the three boys. 

“Well, weVe lost our girl,” said the farmer 
jocularly, “Gabs went and married Jakey Rum- 
berger, the big drover, day before yesterday; 
she ’s going to live in a fine red brick bouse, with 
marble steps, opposite the courthouse, she cer- 
tainly has done well.” 




1 i : i ;; 


Indian Joe was by nature a stoic, but this was 
shocking news to hear. He bore it unflinchingly, 
however, and started to help harness the team as 
if nothing had happened. There was only one 
Jakey Rumberger whom he could remember. 
This Jakey was a huge, deep- voiced, black- 
bearded fellow, over forty years of age ; he had 
seen him once or twice buying cattle in the moun- 
tains. He was reputed to be wealthy, but was a 
hard bargainer, crafty and cruel. 

At dinner time Indian Joe found Mother Os- 
mer in excellent humor ; he discussed the wedding 
with her pleasantly. She said that she had sent 
the trout and the elkhorn to the bride the very 
next morning, along with all her clothes, as she 
had not returned that night. Afterwards when 
he noticed the horn lying under the floor of the 
kitchen porch he scented some deception, but 
Indian-like, remained tranquil. He worked all 
summer for the Osmers, was cheerful and com- 
municative, never once betraying the burning 
sorrow at his heart. He never wept even when 
alone, he never complained, he was like a wound- 
ed wolf, resigned to all that had and would 


occur. 


Gabs did not come back on a visit that summer 
or winter, but the following summer she was at 
the farm with her small baby for several weeks* 
She acted in a friendly manner towards the In- 
dian, but both kept their distance. At the begin- 
ning of that winter Indian Joe joined the crew 
of a big lumber camp and helped build rafts 
to send down Penn’s Creek. He liked the work 
so well that he never resumed farm labor. When 
he was idle he made baskets at his cabin, and 
occasionally spent a day or two visiting the Os- 
mers. He saw Gabs from time to time; she 
seemed happy, four children were born to her. 

Years rolled by, Isaac Osmer passed away, the 
property was farmed by the sons. Mother Osmer 
moved to Lewistown with her daughter. Indian 
Joe’s visits ceased, he maintained his solitary 
existence, when home from the pine jobs. Once 
thirty years after the marriage to Gabs — he must 
have been a very old man — and had been buried 
at his birthplace in Dormantown. Life is strange 
— its action is circular. 

Twelve months later, it was the first year that 
Decoration Day was observed, Indian Joe hap- 
pened to be working on the headwaters of the 


branch of Panther Creek — it was called Little 
Panther — where he had found the elkhorn so 
many years before. The past tortured him so 
acutely that as soon as good weather set in he 
drew his time and quit. The boss for whom he 
had worked for seven or eight years remarked 
that “Indian Joe must be getting old; this is the 
first job he failed to stick at to the end.^^ Un- 
like most loggers, the Indians in particular, he 
was not restless and changeable. Some peculiar 
impulse drew him across the White Mountains to 
Dormantown; he wanted to see if Jakey Rum- 
berger was really dead and buried there. He 
visited the cemetery, and had no trouble in find- 
ing the stone, it was the most conspicuous one 
there. To make it more so, several of the shaggy, 
venerable pines had been cut down, showing it 
off to full advantage. On the slab he read 
“Jacob, Beloved Husband of Gabriella Rum- 
berger. Departed this Life June 1, 1865, aged 75 
years.’’ He wept no tears over Jakey ’s decease, 
but he hated to read that the widow had inscribed 
him for posterity as her “beloved.” He felt sorry 
he had visited the graveyard. He planned to re- 
cross the mountains that night, but on the high- 



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road he chanced to meet Benny McElhoe who 
had once worked with him in the woods. 

Benny had a contract for cutting ties for the 
new railroad that was projected through the val- 
ley, and wanted the Indian to help him. He 
could board with Benny, whose home was next 
door to the Dormantown post office. Indian Joe 
accepted, and soon became the most active man 
on the tie job. Benny’s wife, a sober-minded 
Pennsylvania German woman, was much inter- 
ested in church work. She was a leader of the 
‘‘Helpers,” a society of women who kept the 
church and its grounds in good condition. Dec- 
oration Day, the new festival, was to be properly 
observed in the little mountain hamlet. Already 
six Civil War soldiers were buried in the pine- 
shaded cemetery. The good woman invited the 
Indian to accompany her to the graveyard to 
help her clean off the graves, to scrape the moss 
off the old tombstones. He hated to go there, 
but as Benny had always been kind to him, he 
hated equally to refuse. As they neared the en- 
closure, they noticed a team of horses and a 
surrey standing by the whitewashed paling 


fence. A colored driver, who held the reins, was 
asleep on the front seat. 

“Pretty toney folks for such a place, said 
Eachel McElhoe. When they entered the gate, 
the Indian’s sharp eyes detected a familiar face. 
It was none other than widow Gabs. She was 
seated by her husband’s grave, scraping away 
the weeds, smoothing out the beds of myrtle. 
A trifle stouter, her hair a trifle darker, other- 
wise she was the same Gabs. Two young girls, 
elegantly dressed, were standing near, but they 
made no elfort to assist. When she saw the In- 
dian she called to him, and he hurried over to 
her, shaking her warmly by the hand. Rachel 
McElhoe stood at a distance, speechless at the 
wild Indian’s intimacy with the “toney folks.” 
He stood and talked to her for awhile, and when 
the young ladies, having grown impatient, moved 
in the direction of their carriage, she asked him 
to sit down and help her. Horror of horrors, did 
he ever think he would live to the day when he 
would be arranging his hated rival’s grave for 
Decoration Day ! But he took to the task with a 
will, and both worked until they perspired. Then 
they braced themselves with their hands and 


rested. They fell to talking about the past, every 
detail of the old days was discussed — up to the 
time of her sudden marriage. 

“Do you know how I came to marry Jacob 
Rumbergerr’ she asked, suddenly. 

‘ ‘ No, I don ’t know, ' ’ replied the Indian. “ It 's 
something IVe puzzled my mind over for thirty 
years. It broke my heart, for I loved you.’’ 
Gabs, struck by his frankness, looked him full 
in the eyes and continued. 

‘ ^ I think I loved you too, but I was very young, 
and not quite sure what love meant. I had no in- 
tention of marrying him, but I did it to save our 
home. You see Jacob was very rich; he owned 
many mortgages, including one which covered 
almost everything we possessed. Father was a 
poor manager and let everything slip out of his 
hands. Things got to a point where it meant we 
would have to give up the place, and take to 
living in a cabin smaller than yours, and father 
asked him if there was any way we could remain. 
Jacob was blunt, and told him that if he would 
let him marry his girl, he could stay. Interest 
free, for the rest of his days. I had read so much 
in that book about duty that I meekly consented. 


4g 


IN THE SEVE^ MOUNTAINS 


I never loved Jacob, but I made him a true wife. 
I am here to-day decorating his grave because he 
was the father of my four children.” 

Indian Joe looked at her, amazed yet full of 
love. ‘‘Is that what you call the white man’s 
honor ? ” he faltered. The words were no sooner 
uttered than he wished them back, but it was too 
late. 

“Is that what you call the red man’s honor, to 
wait thirty years and then chide me for doing 
what I thought was my duty,” she answered. 

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” said the Indian. 
Gabs did not make any sign as if she understood, 
and went on, “I had hoped and prayed every 
day since Jacob died, and maybe away down in 
my heart once or twice while he was alive, that I 
would see you again, we have met, I am disap- 
pointed.” “Mother, mother, mother,” called 
the girls in the surrey, “what on earth are you 
doing there, come along. ’ ’ 

“I must be going,” said Gabs, with a flushed 
face, as she clambered to her feet. Once stand- 
ing before her former lover, with the feeling that 
she might never see him again, all her old love 




49 


■^-unt.^:ns 


came back like an avalanche, she forgot her re- 
cent words of reproach. 

“I deserve all you said, Joe, and more. I 
have been the unhappiest woman in the world.’’ 
She held out her hand, he clasped it, she half 
uttered some words, then repressed them. In 
her quandary she left him standing on a grave 
without saying goodbye. In the carriage the girls 
turned on their mother angrily. 

“You didn’t dare invite that awful looking 
scarecrow to come to see us, did you, your old- 
time friends are always turning up.” 

Gabs turned away, and looked towards the 
White Mountains, across that wall-like range, 
and several more was the bleak, uneven roofed 
farm-house where she had spent her girlhood, 
from which she had gone to a life of affluent 
slavery. What had she gained by her sacrifice to 
duty, thirty years of uncongenial marriage, chil- 
dren who disapproved of her obscure origin, her 
one love who lived to chide her. 

All the way back in the carriage she remained 
speechless. ‘ ‘ Mother ’s got her sulks, ’ ’ whispered 
one girl over the seat to her sister. That night 
the lonely woman sat up until midnight reading 


60 


IN THE SEVEN MOUNTAINS 


Heberts poems, drinking dregs of bitterness. 
What was Indian Joe doing now, why hadn’t 
she urged him to come to see her, or insisted on 
remaining with him in Dormantown. Then she 
thought of her sons, rising young attorneys, of 
her daughters’ social prominence; she had sealed 
her fate over thirty years before, it was a life 
sentence. 


11 . 


DAN THE ASTER’S NIGHTS. 

(Story of the Wolf Knob.) 

AN TRE ASTER’S nights were 
awful,” said the little spec- 
tacled livery driver, as we 
bumped along in the rickety 
old surrey over the rocky road 
to Bannerville. We were on 
our way to meet a certain Joe 
Knepp, a famous hunter, and 
hear from him some of his thrilling ad- 
ventures in the Seven Mountains in the long 
ago, but our driver bid fair to tell us 
more stirring tales than this ancient nimrod. 
“No matter how terrible the nights were,” 
continued the driver, “Uncle Dan wouldn’t 
move away. He was the first white man to 
settle in the little valley which was called 
after him, he was proud of the fact, and 
swore he’d die there. When he first appeared 
there as a young man the valley was choked full 
of pines and hemlocks. They grew so tall that 

they seemed to reach to the summits of the sur- 

61 



rounding mountains. He viewed his future home 
from the top of the point they now call 
Treaster’s Knob or Wolf Knob, and then climbed 
down to the bottom, where he found a sweet 
spring, and set to work. He had a lean-to of 
boughs and burlap built by the first night on 
the ground, and into it he retired for a night of 
peaceful sleep. 

‘‘He had laid down and turned over once or 
twice when he heard some sniffling and snarling 
outside just like a pack of hounds. ‘Somebody’s 
hunting in the valley and their dogs have scented 
me,’ he thought. ‘Get out of there,’ he yelled, 
but instead of the desired result, there com- 
menced a howling and barking the like of which 
was scarcely ever heard in the world before. 

“Dan Treaster had come from Perry County, 
where wild game had long since disappeared, but 
he had heard the old folks talk a lot, and he knew 
that his nocturnal visitors were wolves. There 
must have been five hundred of them he figured. 
He stood the infernal racket as long as he could, 
there was no use trying to get to sleep, so he got 
up, and walked to the flap of the tent. He saw 
eyes of wolves everywhere, they looked like 


roi 


53 


lightning bugs, only every one was a dozen times 
bigger and brighter. He took a couple of random 
shots with his rifle, there were some awful yelps 
of pain, the pack turned on their heels, and 
Uncle Dan turned on his, lay down among his 
buffalo robes, and fell fast asleep. 

‘ ‘ It was broad daylight when he awoke the next 
morning. There had been a hoar frost, though it 
was early in September, and the air was crisp 
and cold. Two dead wolves lay within a hun- 
dred feet of the lean-to. They hadn’t been 
touched by the others which proved that they 
were well fed, that game was abundant. ‘I am 
going to live on what the wolves have been get- 
ting,’ he said, as he commenced preparing 
breakfast. After his meal he skinned the two 
carcasses, and hung the hides on trees to dry, 
and as a warning to other wolves not to disturb 
his slumbers in future. 

“Uncle Dan was a big powerful young man in 
those days, he wore a long black beard, work was 
nothing to him. Within a month he had a re- 
spectable sized clearing, and the logs and brush 
piled in the centre of it ready for the blaze. He 
then, single-handed of course, built a log cabin 


and barn, and started for Pf outs’ Valley to 
spend Christmas. When he came back the sight 
reminded folks who saw it of pictures of Noah’s 
Ark. First in importance, he brought a wife, 
a very pretty young girl. Next in value was the 
livestock, a mare and foal, two cows, three sheep, 
five hogs, a crate of Greeley chickens, and a trio 
of “toppy” ducks. Last, but not least, were 
three small dogs. Aunt Nancy, as we called 
Dan’s wife led the brigade driving the wagon, on 
which were piled household and farming imple- 
ments ; Dan himself brought up the rear driving 
the stock. He carried his trusty rifle, and the 
caravan feasted on game the entire distance. He 
had cut a trail through Beaver Hollow into the 
valley, it was pretty rough work negotiating it, 
but the entire outfit was landed safely at the new 
home. It was a great day for Uncle Dan, within 
four months he had come, seen, conquered. The 
livestock was carefully shut in the stable, while 
the pioneer and his wife proceeded to get sup- 
per. They lingered quite awhile over the repast, 
discussing their trip and plans for the future, 
when it occurred to them that they had better go 
out to see how the stock was faring. It had be- 


come quite dark, and Aunt Nancy experienced 
some difficulty in finding her box of tallow dips. 
Uncle Dan tried to help and fifteen minutes were 
consumed in the search. Both got real upset at 
mislaying such an important item. While they 
fussed and fumed an awful barking began out- 
side the cabin, Aunt Nancy was frightened half 
to death. 

‘What’s all that, for lands sakes,’ she shrieked. 

“ ‘Wolves, only wolves,’ was Uncle Dan’s reply. 
He shot several times into the darkness, hut the 
dreadful racket would not grow less. 

“ ‘You can’t go to the barn tonight,’ said Aunt 
Nancy, ‘the wolves would make their supper off 
you.’ 

“ ‘I guess I don’t care to either,’ said the 
pioneer with a laugh. 

“ ‘Too bad we hadn’t watered the stock before 
it got so dark, ’ said his wife. 

“ ‘Let’s go to bed,’ said Uncle Dan. ‘Maybe 
when we wake up in the morning the barn and 
ail its contents will be gone,’ said Aunt Nancy. 

“At this the hunter laughed, saying that if such 
was the case it meant another trip to Pf outs’ 
Valley for a fresh supply. In the morning when 


56 


IN THE SEVE: M0-'NTAIN3 


they went out they found that the compact log 
barn had proved an admirable fortress, that all 
the livestock were intact. The toppy ducks dur- 
ing the night had laid eggs, perhaps through 
fright! The little dogs lay in a helpless condi- 
tion on the straw, their tongues hung out, their 
eyes bloodshot. They had tried their best all 
night to get out at their noisy foes, but after 
beating their little bodies frantically against the 
walls for hours, they finally laid down exhausted. 
That evening Uncle Dan and his wife went to the 
stable to feed the stock before preparing their 
own supper. It took quite awhile to satisfy each 
hungry animal and fowl, and dusk closed in 
quickly. Just as they were bedding the mare 
and foal an awful barking arose outside. It was 
the wolves back again. The little dogs made a 
dive for the open door but the pioneer knocked 
them back with his fork. Aunt Nancy had pres- 
ence of mind to slam the door; they were safe 
in the barn but supperless. Uncle Dan of course 
had his rifle with him, and shot it off a couple of 
times through a knothole in the door. It didn’t 
do any good, and he didn’t care to waste ammuni- 
tion, so he decided to let the wolves hold the fort 


ir ^ 


for the night. The couple fumbled about in the 
darkness and located the two duck eggs which 
had been placed in the corner of a feed-box for 
safe keeping, and these eaten raw, with cups of 
milk, constituted their supper. Then they drove 
the cows into the entry and lay down in their 
stall, and went asleep. Outside the wolves yelled 
themselves hoarse. In the morning the courageous 
pair laughed heartily at having gotten the better 
of them. It must have been humiliating to the 
creatures to make such a noise without frightening 
their intended victims. Thus began and went on 
a constant conflict with the wolves, which the 
animals felt more than the Treasters. 

“Aunt Nancy admitted she was a little fright- 
ened when her first baby was born; it was too 
precious to be devoured by wild beasts. A lame 
girl from Cocolamus, I believe she was a distant 
relative, named Sib Royer, came to stay with the 
Treasters at this time. The wolves made her so 
nervous that she could not sleep, so after a week 
she decided to foot it back to civilization. She 
never reached Cocolamus. Her family vowed 
that she had been eaten by wolves on the way, 
and blamed Uncle Dan for letting her start off 


58 


alone. Old Daddy Reese, who used to peddle 
through the mountains pulling a little wagon, he 
was afterwards murdered near the Black Horse 
Tavern, and his body buried in the woods, told a 
very different story. Two days after Sib had 
left Treaster valley he claimed he saw her in a 
Gypsy wagon, moving in the direction of Seven 
Stars. But at the same time Sib Royer was 
never heard tell of again. 

“Uncle Dan had some thrilling adventures with 
the wolves himself. Once he was treed by the 
pack for a whole night. They got so close that he 
had to leave his gun and climb a honey-locust for 
his life. On several other occasions he had to 
run home in a hurry, literally slamriing the 
door in the animals ^ faces. Most men would have 
moved away or else raised an awful howl for 
protection. It was all a joke with Uncle Dan. 
He always maintained that after the food sup- 
ply of the wolves had gone, the sickly deer and 
grouse, and other game, they would die out of 
themselves. Every year more wolves died from 
starvation than from the hunters after a country 
was opened up. His father who had lived in 
Buffalo Valley in his youth, used to tell him 




about finding the carcasses of fifty wolves buried 
in a snow-drift on Jack’s Mountain in the early 
spring of 1835. The hunters had destroyed the 
wolves’ supply, they had become too weak from 
hunger to draw themselves out of the drift, and 
had to perish. Uncle Dan proved his statements 
by the fact that the wolves he killed the first 
night of his arrival in the valley were not eaten 
by their fellows; latterly they turned on their 
fallen comrades so quickly that he could hardly 
secure the carcasses for the hides. For this 
reason he killed or trapped few wolves. ‘They 
will go soon enough,’ he sighed. His industry 
was prodigious. 

‘ ‘ He cut and burnt all the timber which stood 
on the face of the mountain back of his home, 
clear to the top of the Knob. There a ledge of 
sharp rocks overhung the steep slope. It was a 
risky place to work, so he left standing the 
thick tuft of scrub-pines on the point, which 
at a distance resembled an Indian’s war top- 
knot. There was a time when anyone standing 
on the top of Paddy’s Mountain and looking in 
every direction could see only one patch of light 
green; that was Dan Treaster’s clearing, the 


60 


roUNTAINS 


IN TB 


rest was the blue-black mass of pine and hemlock 
wilderness. He pastured his cattle and sheep on 
the almost perpendicular slope; they seemed to 
thrive on fireweed and raspberry bushes. He 
had them all belled, it was sweet music to hear 
all the little bells ringing in harmony so far 
away, on still summer afternoons. The descend- 
ants of the three small dogs which he brought 
from Pfouts^ Valley guarded them, and they 
were scarcely ever molested by wolves. The 
little dogs barked when they scented danger, 
and Uncle Dan or one of his boys would run 
up the hill with a gun, and soon finish any 
would-be mirauder. But this was seldom, con- 
sidering the remoteness. Several people asked 
the old man why he preferred small dogs to big 
ones. ‘Well,’ he drawled, ‘the big dogs are 
fools, they would fight a wolf and get licked. 
The little dogs bark for help and my boys or I 
finish the job.’ 

“Naturally he acquired several wolf hides an- 
nually, and his boys sometimes brought down a 
catamount or a wildcat. He never went to the 
county seat to collect bounties, as he feared it 
would attract outsiders into ‘his’ valley. He 


61 


always traded the hides with Daddy Reese, who 
hauled them in his little hand-wagon to Derrs- 
town or Youngmanstown, where they fetched 
good prices. The wolf-hides were coal black, 
and very long haired, they were of the species 
canis lycaon. Old Daddy would never tell where 
he got these hides though some of the younger 
professional hunter scallywags threatened to 
heat him ^ if he didn’t. Some thought that it 
was during a row caused by his silence on this 
subject which caused his murder ; at any rate he 
was headed for the remoter little valleys when 
he met his cruel death. Perhaps his ghost will 
tell the story some time; it draws the little 
wagon about the oakwood where he was slain, 
every moonless night. Of course a few hunters 
and timber prospectors did get in the valley, hut 
Uncle Dan had a way of making the game seem 
scarce when they appeared. But he could not 
prevent the wolves from harking. Every night 
they would huddle themselves together on the 
ledge on the topmost point of the Knob, and 
howl defiance at the occupants of the log cabin 
below. 


62 


rOTTlTTAIHS 


II! ll r, Si^.^ 


“ ‘Every year their barking grows fainter/ 
Uncle Dan would say. ‘Every time I kill a 
deer it means one more wolf must starve this 
winter. ’ 

“Uncle Dan was a great deerslayer; contrary 
to the custom of most men of his type, he loved 
to preserve the horns. His barns and outbuild- 
ings were decorated with scores of antlers, some 
of them very pretentious. I can recall a set 
that had sixteen points on each horn — it had a 
very broad spread ; I think it was the record set 
for the Seven Mountains. Sammy Strohecker at 
Rebersburg had a grand pair with twelve points 
on each horn, but Uncle Dan’s was much bigger. 
And the bear paws, there were enough of them 
to walk to California — he had them nailed up 
everywhere. He also tacked up catamounts’ 
paws. They were fluffy and very big, twice 
the size of a wildcat’s. 

‘ ‘ The catamount or Canada Lynx is a northern 
animal, I know, but they were found in the 
Seven Mountains. Two were killed by the Foster 
boys on Broad Face in November, 1912. While 
Uncle Dan bought and paid for flve hundred 
acres, it was only a small fraction of the acre- 


age of Treaster Valley. From head to 
mouth it contained a good six thousand acres, 
all heavily timbered; it was seven miles long. 
About thirty years ago the first white 
pine jobs started there. There was one camp 
in charge of Indian Joe, another bossed 
by a cranky York State Yankee, whose name 
I forget. The wolves would bark, and the 
Yank and his wife threw fits every night. He 
got so mad and excited that he actually drove 
to the county seat and asked State aid in ridding 
the valley of wolves ; said he ’d demand the call- 
ing out of the militia to help him, it was an out- 
rage to have wolves in a civilized commonwealth. 
He drank a lot that day, and told his stories 
to the newspaper men, so all the county papers 
came out with big headlines and scare stories 
about the wolves of Treaster Valley. 

‘‘This naturally brought a swarm of hunters 
into the region, but not a single wolf was killed. 
‘Why, it’s only my little dogs that do the bark- 
ing,’ said Uncle Dan, by way of discouraging 
their permanent occupation of his hunting 
grounds. But the hunters killed a number of 
deer, wild turkeys, rabbits, wild pigeons and 


64 


IN THE SEVEN MOUNTAINS 


grouse, which cut severely into the food supply 
of the remnant of the wolves which remained. 

“The wolf scare was followed by a panther 
scare. The Yankee and his wife had gotten up 
sufficient courage to spend an evening with the 
Treaster family. It was clear full moonlight, 
almost as light as day. The wolves did some 
little barking that night, but whenever the 
Yankee woman clutched her husband’s arm and 
shivered. Uncle Dan would say ‘dogs, dogs.’ 
It was about ten o’clock when they left for 
their camp, which was situated about a mile 
west of Uncle Dan’s home, the spring was where 
Beaver Run heads. They had a big spotted dog 
with them, which commenced acting queerly 
after they had gone a few hundred yards. It 
huddled close beside them, whining pitifully. 
The Yankees stopped and listened, all they could 
hear was the doleful cadences of the katydids, 
the gurgling of the brook. The dog laid down 
flat, and had to be dragged along by his collar ; 
this thoroughly frightened them. ‘Wolves,’ 
sobbed the Yankee woman; ‘it’s them, it’s them, 
it ’s them, ’ bellowed the husband. Terror strick- 
en they eventually reached the camp, ran in and 


slammed the door. They woke up all the crew, 
which started a regular swearing match, as the 
red-shirted figures rose up from their bunks. 
Just then they heard an awful scraping and 
scratching, it sounded like a planing mill in 
operation ! They looked through the tiny window 
of the lobby and in the bright moonlight could 
see the head of a huge panther emerging over the 
back end of the horse-stable. The animal 
walked along the tar-paper roof until he 
reached the ledge, where he stood motionless. 
They say moonlight magnifies; it must have in 
this case as every woman's son in the camp 
swore the brute was eighteen feet long! Polish 
Mike, the biggest man in the bunch, picked up a 
shot gun, and despite the pleadings of the rest 
of the gang, opened the door and fired point 
blank at the monster, which was not more than 
fifty feet away. There was a hideous howl of 
pain, and the panther sprang off the roof, a dis- 
tance of thirty feet; the ground shook when he 
struck it, and disappeared in the underbrush. 

'‘The next week there was a new boss 
in the camp, and he was Polish Mike. Uncle 
Dan was glad when the pine jobs were all 


ended as they kept bringing strangers into 
the valley and game decreased apace. The old 
man doubted if there were more than half a 
dozen wolves still in the valley. When he be- 
gan to feel at peace again, it was only two 
years after the last pine job had been finished, 
no less than five hemlock camps were opened 
in different parts of the valley. A tram-road 
was built into the valley. All told, the camps 
contained over a hundred bark-peelers, skidders, 
axers and teamsters. To make matters worse, 
the very next year a big prop-timber camp 
opened on the broad plateau back of the Knob, 
the wolves’ last retreat. Hemmed in by civili- 
zation, the dwindled pack gave up the struggle 
and dropped out of sight. 

“It was about this time that farmers in Penn’s 
Valley saw little companies of wolves trotting 
across the fields towards the northern mountains. 
Presumably they were heading for Canada, but 
they probably died of starvation before getting 
beyond the ‘northern tier.’ All was quiet in 
Treaster Valley; the wolves were gone, the 
stray panthers and catamounts abashed, wailed 
no longer, the only racket came from a new 


stave mill. Uncle Dan Treaster began to grow 
feeble, his giant form sometimes shook with 
palsy, his beard became very white. When he 
was able he began taking solitary walks, he 
seemed to be looking for something, it was the 
wolves. He often asked his boys who worked on 
the bark jobs if they heard tell of any being 
seen in his valley, or in Hay vice Valley, or in 
High Valley across the mountain. The only 
consolation he could find was when Indian Joe 
came and spent a Sunday at his home and told 
him that as soon as the bark jobs and the stave 
mill got away, the wolves would be back. But 
where were they, were they watching from some 
distant high top ? 

^‘Finally the bark-peeling finished, and the 
stave mill blew off for the last time. Uncle Dan 
had survived these modern devices, perhaps the 
good old days and the wolves would return. But 
in the wake of the lumbermen came a killing 
forest fire, the first Treaster Valley had ever 
known. It burnt the valley to a blackened waste 
from end to end, from the summits to the deep- 
est gullies. Every tree seemed lifeless except a 
few old tupelos. The abandoned stave mill and 


camps were wiped off the face of the earth. 
Uncle Dan and his boys had to work night and 
day for a week to save their buildings. The 
strain was too much for the old man, he went 
down rapidly after it. It is said that he wept 
when he looked up at the mountain which he had 
cleared and beheld the clump of pines on the 
summit reduced to charred branchless stabs. 

“Even if the wolves came back where would 
they hide to howl nocturnal defiance on the log 
cabin beneath ! 

“ ^ It will be all right now, ^ said Bill, his oldest 
son, ‘you’ll surely have the valley all to your- 
self, people will soon forget there ever was such 
a place.’ But the old man shook his head say- 
ing that he would not be convinced until he 
heard a wolf call on the Knob. The next spring 
brought some signs of life to the valley. The 
oak and chestnut trees sprouted green leaves, 
even some of the pitch pines on the higher levels 
sent out shoots; fireweed, poke and sour-grass 
were everywhere. One bright morning while 
ploughing, a farmer residing near Aaronsburg, 
saw a large black wolf trotting across his field 
in the direction of the Seven Mountains. That 


night Uncle Dan had retired at dark, but he 
awoke about nine o’clock, saying to his wife 
that he heard a wolf harking on the topmost 
crag of the Knob. She lit the lamp, and the 
old man dressed himself with trembling anx- 
iety. Fastening his galluses with palsied 
fingers, he stumbled out on the back porch. His 
son Bill heard him, and was soon out of bed, 
and hurried after his father with a quilt. He 
got the old man to sit down on his favorite 
chair, and threw the comforter about his 
shoulders. 

“ ‘Listen,’ said the gaunt pioneer, holding his 
left hand behind his ear, ‘there’s a wolf calling 
on the Knob.’ The son, and old Aunt Nancy, 
who were near, could hear the clear distinct 
notes of wolfish anguish high up among the 
charred pines on the cone. Louder and fiercer, 
and more heartrending it became, until it died 
away in an inarticulate sob. Then all was still, 
save for the peepers in the marsh below the 
spring-house. 

“ ‘I’m afraid it’s a token,’ whispered Aunt 
Nancy to her hoy. Scarcely had she uttered 


70 


IN THE SEVEN MOUNTAINS 


these words when Uncle Dan began breathing 
heavily. 

‘Run quickly and get the lamp/ called the 
old lady. Before Bill could get back, the brave 
soul of the great gaunt patriarch of the Seven 
Mountains had departed for the unknown land.^^ 



in. 


THE GHOST. 

(The Story of an Old Academy.) 

T was at the old Seminary in 
New Berlin that Douglass 
Clawaghter met Ettie Lucas. 
They were both pupils at 
this time-honored institution, 
though occupying very differ- 
ent stations in life. Despite 
the fact that they had been 
born and reared within twelve miles of each 
other, they had never laid eyes on one another 
until one dark afternoon in the natural history 
museum on the top floor of the seminary build- 
ing. Both had gotten to the school a day before 
term opened, traveling by different routes. It 
was as if fate had sent them on one of her in- 
scrutable errands. Both, after making the neces- 
sary arrangements with the secretary, had been 
assigned to rooms, had taken a stroll under the 
grand old maples and pines that completely em- 
bowered the campus. Walking in opposite diree- 

71 



tions they had seen one another from a distance, 
each without a quickening interest. Then a 
September shower set in, cold and blowy, hurling 
down yellow leaves on the paths. Distant thunder 
rumbled. Jack’s Mountain grew purple-black, 
there were few patches of silver in the sky. Ettie 
was first to get indoors ; she made a pretty figure 
clad in a clinging black dress, running before the 
storm. She ran upstairs and was in her room 
before Douglass had entered the building. He 
paused for a minute in the hallway, reading the 
school announcements which were tacked to a 
board on the wall. On a small slip of paper was 
written in neat, old-style script “Natural His- 
tory Museum, top floor. ’ ’ Douglass, who was of a 
studious turn of mind, rejoiced when he read 
this ; it would be an ideal place to spend the time 
that intervened until the lamps were lit and sup- 
per was ready. 

He recalled that his father had mentioned the 
existence of such a museum as one of the at- 
tractions of the academy. It had inclined him 
to his decision to matriculate, although he knew 
he would be isolated there by caste and race. 
Why his father was determined to send him to 


New Berlin, when there were so many more 
fashionable institutions, was an enigma to him. 
Perhaps he feared the boy might have tempta- 
tions, or acquire extravagant habits at the great 
New England preparatory schools. The elder 
Clawaghter was a typical Scotch-Irishman of 
the old-fashioned type. He had strong views 
on every subject, and so on. Douglass climbed the 
three flights of stairs to the museum, leaning 
heavily on the walnut balustrades, as he was in 
a thoughtful mood. The paint-faded walnut door 
was shut, but a key stuck in it ; evidently it had 
just been opened for the semester. The young 
man entered the vast room, it was low ceilinged, 
but occupied almost the entire top floor. The 
many windows were sloping, they were in the 
Mansart roof, and commanded splendid views 
of the surrounding country; the sky was sun- 
silvered as the storm had ceased. The museum 
had a peculiar, musty, medicated odor, almost 
like stale pepper, it was close and needed venti- 
lation. In long rows were the tall cases, made 
of white pine painted white with dusty glass 
lights. In them were collections of the birds, 
animals, insects, geology and fossils, as well 


as many Indian relics, of Central Pennsylvania. 
Brought together with great care by Professor 
A. E. Gobble and other scientists, they were 
worthy of metropolitan surroundings. 

Almost the first object which greeted the 
young student’s eyes was the stuffed effigy of 
the famous Dorman panther. This animal, one 
of the largest of its kind ever killed in the Seven 
Mountains, and a splendid male, was mounted 
with mouth wide open, showing the dental de- 
velopment. Set up according to the custom 
of the time, it was stuffed with the bul- 
let holes in full view; two gaping hollows, one 
in the jowl, below the eye, the other near the 
heart, showing where the great nimrod had ended 
the monster’s life on that memorable Christmas 
Eve in 1868 on Shreiner Knob. Douglass’ heart 
stood still as he gazed at the manikin; it was 
so typical of all that was noble and best in the 
wild mountain life of the region so fast passing 
away. 

So wrapt was his attention that he was un- 
aware of another’s presence, until a loose board 
in the bare floor creaked audibly. He turned 
around and beheld a wonderfully fair vision of 


young womanhood. She was of the hlonde, or 
ash-brown coloring, above the medium height. 
Slim and of graceful outlines — she was 
dressed in black — she was the girl who had hur- 
ried in before the storm half an hour earlier! 
Her face was most unusual, having a cast of 
features seldom seen in these times. The distance 
from the eyes to the upper lip was remarkably 
long; she recalled the familiar picture of Lady 
Janet Thraill. The lips were red and full, and 
inclined to pout; the eyelids drooped, partly 
covering grey-hlue eyes. Her color was rosy, 
the complexion of a healthy girl of seventeen; 
her fingers were very long and very white. 

Douglass hesitated a moment before speaking, 
his nature was shy; then he made hold to ask 
her if she was to he a pupil at the school. When 
she replied in the affirmative, she spoke in a de- 
cided Pennsylvania German intonation. It is 
delicious to those who are used to it ; almost bar- 
baric to strangers from the east. The young 
man knew this accent very well, though it was 
used by a class of people with whom his family 
and self rarely maintained social intercourse. 
The old Scotch- Irish families with their manor 


houses of herring-bone stone, with the family 
arms cut on slabs of granite inserted beneath 
the gables, their vast estates, political and social 
eminence, their ancestry running in unbroken 
lines far into the distant past in the old country, 
could feel little affinity for the German element, 
springing it was maintained, mostly from a 
peasant race. They were different in caste, in 
religion, in tastes, marriages or even friend- 
ships seldom occurred between them in the Seven 
Mountains^ Country. But here was a girl, 
Pennsylvania German she might be, who was 
every inch a queen. 

“My name is Douglass Clawaghter, ’ ^ said the 
young man to cement the introduction, “I live 
at Rossmere.’’ Rossmere was the name of the 
manor house where the Clawaghters had re- 
sided for four generations. The girl looked at 
him in surprise. 

“I am Ettie Lucas,” she said simply, “my 
father is Simon Lucas the lumber dealer at 
Abundance in Gregg Township.” Douglass 
knew Simon Lucas by reputation, he was a 
worthy man, but had risen from a plain pilot 
of a grain ark on Penn^s Creek, he was a man 


of no social pretentions. There was no use 
pondering over the intricacies of caste on such 
an occasion, the girl was truly lovely, that was 
all there was to it. The young couple seemed to 
get along admirably; strangely enough, Ettie 
knew considerable about the fauna of the Seven 
Mountains, and they passed two hours blissfully 
in the dingy museum. It was dark, and the sup- 
per bell had rung when they descended. Be- 
sides three professors and the wife of the prin- 
cipal, they were the only persons at the supper 
table. The bare, high-ceilinged room, meagerly 
lit by the single lamp which rested on the red 
table cloth, seemed very cold, the supper of ham 
and eggs, apple butter, homemade bread, coffee 
and cake, very good. The room was innocent of 
pictures, over one of the doors was a much dis- 
colored bust of Simon Snyder, a resident of the 
nearby town of Selin’s Grove, who was a great 
patron of education during his three terms as 
Governor of Pennsylvania; over the other door 
was a stuffed flying squirrel. 

The professors and the principal’s wife were 
very gracious. They talked glowingly of the 
prospects of the coming school year ; it was to be 


the golden age of the old academy. They all 
seemed pleased that the two pupils acted so 
congenially together ; it argued good fellow- 
ship. With ‘‘school spirit’’ the institution would 
have a new lease of life. The young couple 
were together all evening in the sitting room 
laughing and chatting; Douglass was very en- 
tertaining, shyness and pride were nowhere, he 
became an immediate favorite. The next morn- 
ing the body of pupils arrived, there were be- 
tween sixty and seventy, mostly boys, and a 
sturdy, healthy-looking lot they were. Most 
were of the mountaineer type, black-haired and 
black-eyed, with high color, and happy smiles. 

Douglass, despite his wealth and station, 
mingled freely with all, but kept his eye on 
Ettie. As for her, she seemed to have interest 
for no one else. In so many country schools 
boys and girls pair off in this way; in many 
cases marriage results when school days are 
completed. The other lads, impressed as they 
were by Ettie ’s grace and beauty, observed 
Douglass’ concern in her and kept aloof. The 
story was circulated that they had been friends 
for years, that they were engaged already. This 


gained credence from the fact that their homes 
were comparatively near together. In their 
simple hearts they were not aware that class 
is a wider barrier than miles. There was con- 
siderable snow in New Berlin that year — fully 
a month before the Christmas holidays, and 
several sleighing parties were organized by the 
academy students. Douglass always sat close 
to Ettie; on the way back they invariably held 
hands, and sometimes slyly kissed. Douglass 
wrote home enthusiastic accounts of the school, 
of his scholastic prospects. His parents were 
pleased, for they feared the place might be too 
quiet for him, and the social status of his fellow 
pupils uncongenial. Ettie likewise wrote home 
how happy she was, but as her parents looked 
upon the Academy as one of the greatest in- 
stitutions of learning on earth, this was to be ex* 
pected. The sleighing parties paved the way for 
Douglass to invite Ettie to ride with him in a 
cutter which he procured from a local livery 
stable, while the rest of the young people rode in 
the big bobs. In some cases this might have been 
frowned on by the faculty, but as the scholastic 
standing and general deportment of the young 


people was so excellent, they made every allow- 
ance for them. During the holidays the young 
man drove across the ridge to Abundance and 
took supper with his sweetheart at her home. 

He met her parents who were assiduous in 
their attentions to him; he could easily see that 
they looked upon him as a most desirable suitor. 
He never mentioned her name at his home ; often 
he asked himself if this was right, since in the 
depth of his heart he vowed he would make her 
his wife. He knew his family ^s proud spirit; 
how they would rebel at any idea of his even 
being attentive to a person who was not bred as 
he was, who did not belong to the same church. 
Undoubtedly the fair Ettie loved the young man 
to a certain extent; she would have been head 
over heels in love with him had she been older 
and able to appreciate his noble qualities. As 
it was, she thought more of his position than his 
personality. But here let it be said she would 
not marry any man for money, she was not at 
all grasping, besides her father was in very com- 
fortable circumstances. Unknown to her aris 
tocratic lover, she was carrying on a corre- 
spondence with a young fellow of her own class 


who had formerly been a telegraph operator at 
Abundance, but now worked somewhere on the 
Pittsburg division. Maybe she secretly mis- 
trusted her ability to live happily with a scion 
of the “old stock, the operator she could 
have any time. He might come in handy to 
soothe her in case she broke with Douglass. Af- 
ter the holidays the young aristocrat and his 
sweetheart were as often together as previously. 
They were leaders of school life ; they seemed of 
one mind and heart. No one suspected that the 
boy was hiding the affair from his family, that 
the girl was carrying on a secret intrigue with 
another lad. As good weather ensued, Douglass 
obtained permission to take Ettie for an occa- 
sional buggy ride on Saturday afternoons. They 
always returned before dark, they never visited 
any but the most frequented highways. 

Everything seemed running along happily un- 
til one day the young man received a message 
saying that his mother was seriously ill, that ho 
had better come home. He was shocked by such 
a bombshell in the midst of his happiness, but 
kept a “stiff upper lip,^^ as they say in the 
mountains. He read the time-tables carefully 


which revealed to him that he had missed the 
last train from Derrstown that would get him 
home that night. The next day was Sunday, 
with no trains running. He might drive the 
thirty-eight miles, but conscience told him that 
he must see his sweetheart first. He first went to 
the principal, informing him of the sad news, 
that he had missed the last train, but was going 
to hire a team and drive there that night. Then 
he asked permission to take Miss Lucas, as he 
called her, for a little drive ‘‘around the square^' 
before departing. Asked when he would be back 
to school, he said that it depended entirely on 
his mother’s condition. But the strange in- 
tuitive voice within told him that he would 
never return. When he gave the telegram to 
Ettie, she did not seem as moved as he hoped she 
would be. She showed more interest when he 
asked her to go for the carriage drive. She said 
she would be ready in fifteen minutes, which 
would give him time to go to the livery barn 
back of the Golden Swan and have a team har- 
nessed. Within half an hour he was driving up 
the cinder-road to the front door of the academy, 
beneath the still leafless trees. 


The sound of wheels drew most of the scholars 
to the windows, and they pressed against the 
panes as they watched Ettie getting into the 
buggy. She looked so very beautiful that after- 
noon that he forgot his anxiety, and took her 
for a longer drive than intended. It was almost 
dark, when at the old fort at Kreamer, he 
turned the horses’ heads towards New Ber- 
lin. The animals were walking through the 
muddy road, switching their tails which had 
been tied short to keep them dry. Ettie was 
talking lightly about school matters, she would 
not become serious. Hie handed her the reins, 
leaned back in the seat and began weeping. 

“Oh, how can you take my going away so 
cooly,” he demanded when he regained his com- 
posure. Ettie did not answer for a minute, ap- 
parently she was planning a good answer. 

‘ ‘ Because, ’ ’ she faltered, ‘ ‘ I never take things 
that way. I feel your going deeply, but I rea- 
lize you will soon be back ; there is no use griev- 
ing.” 

“You believe then in the certainty of human 
wishes,” sobbed the heartsick youth. “Wait 
awhile, you will see we have no power to make 


our own destiny, we are like the seeds of the 
wild cotton.” 

“Nonsense,” replied the girl, “you are com- 
ing back in a few days. If we are meant for each 
other, as you keep telling me, nothing can sepa- 
rate us permanently.” 

Then she began talking about her plans for 
vacation, of some visits she wanted to make. She 
had failed her lover when he needed her most, 
but loving her to distraction, he was blind to her 
cruelty. She left him at the gate to the seminary 
grounds, her last words a promise to write him 
every day he was gone. He picked up the 
driver at the barn and commenced the lonely 
journey, which was mostly through pine forests. 

It was nearly daylight when he drove into the 
park at “Rossmere,” with its swift running 
brook. Lights gleamed from behind the shades 
of the high windows of the manse, showing that 
the household was wide awake. His father, raw- 
boned, bearded, with keen grey eyes, met 
him at the door, giving him the details of his 
mother’s condition. She might die any minute, 
or linger for weeks. 


For several days letters came from Ettie. 
They consoled him, though they were really 
stiff and formal. He tried to answer them, 
but as they were lifeless, he could put 
no life into his replies. He had reached home 
on the morning of May 4th, only a month 
and a half remained of the term, so he informed 
his father he would not go back. The old gentle- 
man seemed pleased, especially as he agreed to 
renew his studies in the autumn. At the end 
of two weeks Ettie ’s letters ceased, though in 
epistles which came from some of his boy friends 
at the school, she was evidently still there and 
in good health. They urged him to come to the 
school for commencement day, and devoured as 
he was with love for the false girl, he foolishly 
decided to go. His visit was a surprise to her, 
as she was entertaining the young telegrapher 
as her commencement guest. His blood boiled 
within him when he discovered this. It was 
the story of water seeking its level. She had 
felt uncomfortable with her high-born admirer; 
she secretely longed for the freedom she could 
experience with one of her own class. He left 
abruptly a few hours after he had arrived; his 


fellow pupils thought it was because he was 
jealous. They were not penetrating enough to 
see that his pride as a gentleman was wounded. 

Douglass was very unhappy all summer. He 
was deeply hurt but could not evict Ettie from his 
heart. He dreamed of her every night. He 
saw her image in every dark nook and corner in 
the woods. In the fall, as his mother was somewhat 
improved, he entered a preparatory school in 
Germantown, near Philadelphia. When he came 
home at Christmas he learned that his former 
sweetheart had eloped from New Berlin with the 
telegrapher. They had located somewhere ii; 
West Virginia. She was now physically out of 
his life, hut he could not exorcise her psychi- 
cally. With all her cruelty, her base deceptions, 
he found that he still loved her. His dreams 
and visions continued. He vowed that he 
would never marry anyone else. Outwardly 
he was bright and cheerful, but in secret his soul 
burned and twisted in misery. At the end of the 
school year he returned home permanently, and 
took up the management of the two-thousand- 
acre farm as assistant to his father. He attend- 
ed to his work well, he rarely took a vacation, 


he never noticed any women. He hated to see 
women, as in every one he saw was reflected the 
features of Ettie, who was not for him. As he was 
good-looking and winning, people wondered why 
he should be such a recluse. As fate does things, 
his father died first ; the mother, overcome by the 
bereavement, passed away in twelve months. 

Douglass Clawaghter, last of his race, became 
the master of “Rossmere.’’ When he was thirty 
he yielded to his loneliness and married. His 
bride was Dora McClenaghan, daughter of a 
wealthy landowner in Hutingdon County. She 
was straight-laced, older than himself, but a 
member of the same proud caste. Physically 
she was anything but good looking. There was 
general rejoicing among the ‘^old stock” whose 
very clannishness was causing their disappear- 
ance. Their unwritten law was that they must 
marry among themselves, many remained single 
rather than marry outside ; there were not 
enough eligibles to go around. The young 
bridegroom took his sedate spouse to the old 
manor house, which had been built in the Geor- 
gian style of architecture during the first de- 
cade of the last century. True to the Irish cus- 


tom a swift brook flowed through the grounds, 
terminating in an ice pond, which had suggested 
the word “mere” in naming the manse. Ross 
was a family name of which the Clawaghters 
were very proud. Many large white pines, stag 
topped and decaying, grew in the park, there 
were some weeping willows along the brook. A 
few aged boxwoods and arbor-vitaes huddled 
about the side of the house which faced the road, 
giving out strong odors reminiscent of ceme- 
teries. In the flower beds summer cypress, fox- 
glove, cosmos and hollyhocks flourished. 

The house, built of limestone, plastered and 
whitewashed outside was a melancholy-looking 
pile. Inside it was stiffly furnished with tall 
walnut sets; some badly painted ancestral por- 
traits hung on the walls. On the first landing 
of the winding staircase which was of no mean 
proportions stood a high clock brought from 
Ireland in 1798. Above it hung the antlers of 
the last elk killed in the Seven Mountains, which 
had been shot by Douglass^ grandfather. The 
barns, and several small cottages for retainers 
were the only buildings in sight. Beyond the 
road was a bleak limestone hill used for pasture, 


cropped short save for mullein and milkweed. 
Back of the house — on the side of the main 
entrance, loomed the Seven Mountains, crowned 
by the culminating dome of Milliken^s High Top. 
Most women would have felt lonesome coming 
to such a place, at least after the first novelty 
wore oif, but not so with the dignified bride. 

She was so engrossed thinking about her own 
importance as lady of the manor that she could 
have felt like a queen in the Sahara. All she 
could talk about, think about, dream about, was 
class, caste, birth, ancestry, superiority, exclu- 
siveness. She could not conceive of a Paradise 
peopled by persons not of her strict ancestral 
lines. One must have the blood of Robert 
Bruce, an aide-de-camp to William of Orange, 
and not less than two early Judges of the Penn- 
sylvania Supreme Court to be eligible to eternal 
bliss. 

Whenever Douglass was with her, he could 
not keep his thought from the absent Ettie. It 
was a horrible obsession, and became all the more 
repugnant to him as he absorbed his wife ^s aris- 
tocratic ideas, and realized the mean position in 
the earthly scale that his former love had held. 


When he went out riding, there was a town 
several miles distant, he saw Ettie^s face in 
every woman he met. When he kept to his es- 
tate, he still imagined he saw her coming out from 
behind the old trees, the rocks, bushes, sheds. 
Literally since the girl had camped out in his 
soul, he could have no peace. He was a com- 
plexly organized, hypersensitive representative 
of a dying race. Providence wisely pays with 
extinction the over refinement of race or in- 
dividual. The gloomier and more solemn he be- 
came the better his wife was suited. She perhaps 
liked men of the mould of John Knox or Edward 
Irving. If so the moodier he became the more 
his nature conformed with her ideal. But he 
felt he must have some relaxation. 

He had been married a year, and since the 
brief hone3mioon had been nowhere. There was 
to be a great fair at the county seat in October ; 
it would make a nice drive for his wife and 
self. One of his friends, Findlay Chambers, had 
his horse, Harold the Dauntless, a son of the 
great Rayon d’ Or entered in the running race. 
Douglass' wife was not particularly interested 
in horses, but her clannish spirit was aroused 


at the thought of a racer belonging to one of 
her husband’s friends competing, so she con- 
sented to go. Douglass was fond of horses, and 
all the way was in high spirits. The crisp Octo- 
ber air made the naturally lethargic team travel 
briskly; their dull coats actually glistened in 
the clear autumnal sunlight. 

The magnificent weather had brought an im- 
mense crowd to the fair. Douglass and his wife, 
arriving somewhat late, were compelled to tie 
their team nearly a mile from the gate. Every 
livery stable and hitching post in town was 
doing full duty. The exhibition of cattle, fruits, 
vegetables and farming machinery was of a high 
order, and the side-shows exciting as well as 
splendidly patronized. The harness and running 
races drew out big fields of fair class horses. 
There were eight entries in the running race, 
at half a mile and repeat. 

Douglass’ wife, being stout, was not fond 
of walking, so most of the afternoon was spent 
on the Grandstand. Just before the running 
race was called, the young husband asked per- 
mission to visit the stables and take a look at 
his friend’s horse. As it was several years he- 


fore the time of automobiles, there was a vast 
concourse about the animals, so that Douglass 
had considerable trouble in elbowing to where 
Harold the Dauntless was being saddled. The 
animal was a big, slashing chestnut, a five-year- 
old entire horse, and just as Douglass arrived 
the small colored rider wearing the green shirt 
with orange cap was being hoisted into the 
saddle by owner Chambers. Douglass shook his 
friend warmly by the hand and wished him luck ; 
then he followed the horse to the gate, and patted 
his flank as he bounded through to the hard dirt 
course. The two young men walked together in 
the direction of the stand, chatting amiably. 

Somewhere on the lawn, Douglass felt a pres- 
sure as if a person had brushed against him. 
He looked around, seeing the tall slim figure, 
dressed all in black, of Ettie Lucas. Their eyes 
met. For a moment he was undecided, and took 
a step or two further with his friend. Then he 
stopped, saying he wanted to go back to see 
someone, that he would meet him later on the* 
stand. He turned, and hurried in the direction 
in which the girl had disappeared through the 
crowd. He looked in every direction, was ac- 


tually rude in the way in which he jostled men, 
women and children, but she was nowhere to he 
found. The grounds were not so big that such 
a well-groomed figure could hide herself com- 
pletely, so he moved hither and thither for 
fully ten minutes. When he at length, white 
as a sheet, with heart palpitating, gave up the 
search, Harold the Dauntless, winner of the 
heat, was being led through the gate. He 
thought of his wife on the stand, how she must 
wonder at the cause of his long absence ; but he 
could not go back just yet. Earlier in the after- 
noon he had seen a business partner of Ettie’s 
father, who also lived at Abundance, he would 
seek out this man and learn where the girl was. 
He hated to humiliate himself to do so, as it 
was well known that he had a wife, but passion 
got the better of prudence, conscience. He had 
some difficulty in locating this man, Luther 
Geise. The lumberman was glad to see him, and 
they both expressed pleasure at the victory of 
Harold the Dauntless, hoping that he would win 
the next heat. As quickly as politeness per- 
mitted he asked him if he had seen Ettie Lucas. 
The fat lumberman looked at him in mild sur- 


prise. Then he replied saying that the girl had 
not been home for a year, that she was hardly 
expected that winter. 

“I was sure I saw her here a few minutes 
ago,” gasped the young man. 

‘‘You must have been mistaken,” replied 
Geise, beginning anew the munching of his ci- 
gar. The constant ghost of his life had come 
again, this time to mar his happy afternoon at 
the fair. He almost ran back to the stand, and 
bounded up the rickety steps, and rejoined his 
wife. Just as he did so the crowd was yelling 
as Harold the Dauntless led his field under the 
wire in the second heat. 

“My but you look pale, what ails you?” said 
the wife, with tones of unusual concern. Doug- 
lass was at first prompted to say “oh, nothing,” 
but on second thought replied that he had eaten 
an oyster sandwich which had made him very ill. 

“You must be more careful in the future,” 
said the wife gently. But what care could the 
young man exercise to rid his spirit of its awful 
possession ! He tried to be agreeable and inter- 
ested, but his mind was full of strange memories 
and forebodings. During the most thrilling 


finishes he kept thinking of that late afternoon 
in the old museum at New Berlin, of the silvery 
light coming through the sloping panes; of the 
musty cases filled with the effigies of the wild 
life of the Seven Mountains, of the unconven- 
tional beginning of his romance with the fair, 
false girl. 

Then his pride of race rose uppermost ; dreams 
of his ancestors who ruled Donegal, who fought 
and bled at the Boyne, who graced the Supreme 
Court of Pennsylvania, the Senate of the 
United States. All this was his punishment for 
loving outside his caste, the first who had done 
so in five hundred years. He was now married 
within the fold, ought not the penalty be ended 
now. When he was distressed his wife had 
tried to comfort him, he should be grateful. But 
at his shoulder came a queer thrill, the spiritual 
presence of the German girl. Of what a warfare 
his soul had become the battleground; nature 
striving to overcome caste; the human victim 
dwindling in the struggle. Beads of perspiration 
stood out on his brow, his eyes were glassy. His 
wife looked at him with compassion. 




96 .N THE SEVEN MOUNTAIN" 


“Douglass, you poor boy,’^ she said soothingly, 
“you look more like a person who has seen a 
ghost, than one who ate a stale sandwich. I 
think we had better be starting home. ’ ’ 



IV. 


THE CANOE. 

(A Story of Penn’s Creek.) 

guess the young man’s going 
to make a die of it,” said old 
David Frantz, the wolf 

hunter. ‘ ‘ I saw the canoe go 
under the bridge last night. ” 
We were leaning over the 
railing of the old bridge, on a 
rainy morning in March, 

gazing at the surging, gray waters of Penn’s 
Creek, when the ancient nimrod began his 

strange narrative. It was in 1901, and I had 

come by the morning train to Coburn, hiring a 
team at a livery, and driving three miles west 
along the creek to where the old man resided. 
I had long wanted to meet this quaint character, 
and fortunately found him in a communicative 
mood. After a pleasant chat by his stove, we had 
gone outside, as he wanted to show me where 
he had seen a pair of Otters during the previous 
September. Then his conversation turned to 

97 



local gossip, and the supernatural, each word 
being interesting. 

“Every time when a member of the Clawagh- 
ter family dies, a canoe, manned by the first 
settler of that name in this region, goes down 
the creek at dusk, to goodness alone knows 
where. You probably know young Douglass 
Clawaghter, the present head of the family; he 
is a very fine young man, common, sociable, 
square dealing ; you would never think he had a 
dollar, or lived in the biggest house in the Seven 
Mountains. He^s been laid up with typhoid 
fever for the past seven weeks, but everybody 
thought on account of his youth, he’s only 
thirty-one, he would pull through. But when 1 
saw the canoe last night I feared for the worst. 
I walked up to Cyrus Orndorf’s later in the 
evening, he lives at the next bridge west, and 
he said that he had seen the canoe. That means it 
was no dream of mine, so I guess it’s all off with 
the young gentleman. I’m terribly sorry, as 
everybody liked him in the mountains, and if 
he had cared to run for public office, both parties 
would have felt proud to nominate him. I’m 
watching to see if any rigs come along the creek- 


road that have been past ‘Rossmere/ so I’ll get 
the latest news. If you care to come indoors 
again, I’ll tell you the story of the Clawaghter 
family, and the ‘token’ which informs us when- 
ever disaster overtakes them.” 

I was naturally interested, as folk-lore al- 
ways had a deeper spell over me than researches 
into the vanishing fauna of Central Pennsyl- 
vania. “You know the Clawaghters are one of 
the oldest families in the Seven Mountains. They 
were very different from the first from most of 
the mountaineers. The majority of us came from 
plain German stock, with only thoughts of hard 
work. The Clawaghters were true aristocrats. 
It is said that they came from the banks of a 
river of that name in the North of Ireland, but 
w^hether they took their name from the stream, 
or the stream took its name from them, is go- 
ing back too far into ancient history for me. 
The first Clawaghters to come to Pennsylvania 
were two brothers, named Michael and Desmond. 
They had been officers in the Irish rebellion in 
1798, and barely escaped execution with Robert 
Emmet. They settled in Philadelphia where they 
soon became favorites in society. Michael mar- 


ried a niece or cousin of James Douglass, the 
earl of Ross, for whom Douglassville, a town in 
Berks County, was named. They were always 
very proud of this connection with the nobility 
and called their estate ‘ Rossmere. ’ 

“Through his wife’s relatives, Michael 
Clawaghter was able to purchase at a very low 
cost about twenty thousand acres of land in the 
Seven Mountains, and with his brother Desmond 
set out to develop the vast domain. They se- 
lected a site for a mansion, and soon had a big 
force of Indians and white men clearing a space 
for a park. Skilled workmen were brought from 
Philadelphia, and a handsome manor house rose 
in the wilderness. Although at the start the 
brothers seemed harmonious, the fact that the 
property all belonged to Michael, or his wife, 
probably caused some discontent in Desmond’s 
mind. He was younger than Michael by three 
years, but lacked his good disposition and com- 
mon sense. He had been much petted by women 
as he was extremely handsome, which made him 
vain and silly. He drank a great deal ; it was to 
make him forget the loneliness of the mountains, 
so he confided to his German body-servant. Some 


people thought he drank because his nature 
lacked resources; he never read, he cared noth- 
ing for fine scenery, he was too lazy to hunt or 
fish. 

“Michael was vastly different. He was bubb- 
ling over with energy ; when he wasn ’t working 
at his house or clearing new ground, he was 
organizing elk and wolf drives. Every night he 
sat up until past midnight reading or studying. 
The few pioneers in the surrounding mountains 
looked to him to settle their disputes, to read 
over their legal documents, to give them sound 
advice. He seemed anxious to accommodate, 
and soon he came to go under the name of ‘the 
squire.^ He liked the title, though from all I 
can hear he deserved a higher one. He was 
very anxious to get the manse roofed before 
winter set in. 

“ ‘ As soon as it ^s under cover, ’ he said, ‘ I ’m go- 
ing after my wife ; my real happiness will begin 
when we are together in this beautiful home.^ 
His plan was to go by canoe to Selin’s Grove, 
where he could pick up a likely boatman to carry 
him down the Susquehanna to Harrisburg, or 
else travel that far with the mail-carrier. At 


Harrisburg, or as many still called it, Harris’ 
Perry, several fast stage lines ran to Philadel- 
phia. He intended buying some horses in the 
Quaker City, and woujd probably drive his 
beloved wife to her domain with a coach and 
six! 

He had considerable trouble with labor. One 
by one the stonemasons, plasterers and car- 
penters, whom he had brought from Philadel- 
phia, became homesick and quit. The Indians 
were uncertain workmen; the German farmers 
from the neighborhood had their own duties to 
attend to, they could only help him during spare 
hours. Some days very little work went on, and 
on these occasions ‘Squire’ Michael would go 
hunting. Desmond would get roaring drunk 
and lay in his bunk in the shanty, which stood 
in the lea of the unfinished mansion. As a big 
game hunter, the ’squire bid fair to obtain a 
permanent reputation in the Seven Mountains. 
In the nine or ten months he had lived at his 
projected manor, he had slain brown and black 
bears, wolves, mountain cats, elks, deer, fishers 
and wolverenes. He had been a member of 
hunting parties which had killed panthers, bm 


he apparently had no luck in bringing down a 
‘Pennsylvania lion/ Once when he was out 
alone he surprised a huge ‘ painter ’ sleeping on a 
branch of a rock-oak which hung over his path. 
He shot the brute in the shoulder, his aim had 
been for the heart, but the vital organ was not 
touched. Infuriated with pain, and half asleep, 
the monster tumbled from the tree, and hurled 
himself against the hunter. In the tussle, the 
’squire got his hand in the panther’s mouth and 
tried to break his jaw. I have read that ‘Oom’ 
Paul Kruger once did this with a South African 
lion, but Michael Clawaghter was of more deli- 
cate constitution. The effort was a failure, the 
panther closed his jaws, amputating the squire’s 
left hand at the wrist. Then he thought wisdom 
was flight, so he disappeared up the mountain 
side leaving the master of ‘Rossmere’ wallowing 
in a pool of blood. 

“As soon as he recovered from the shock, with 
the aid of his right hand and his teeth, he ad- 
justed a turniquet above his elbow, made from 
his belt, and staggered back to his clearing. 
Then he broke down and wept like a child. First 
of all he had been beaten in a contest- with a 


dumb brute, secondly a ring which his wife had 
given him was on the little finger of the hand 
which the panther swallowed, thirdly he would 
not be able to ‘paddle his own canoe’ down 
stream when the manse was roofed. Desmond 
was in his cups at the time, and called his 
brother a ‘baby’ for crying; everyone present 
was surprised at the meek way in which he ac- 
cepted the insult. Twenty years later this same 
panther was killed at New Lancaster. After 
skinning him the ring was found in his stomach, 
and eventually restored to its rightful owners. 
I believe young Douglass Clawaghter wears it 
now. Panthers are surely long lived animals ! 

“After the ’squire recovered from his mis- 
hap, his entire nature changed. He took to 
drinking, and it was hard to say which of the two 
brothers imbibed more freely. Both would lay 
in their bunks dead to the world for days at a 
time. The work on the house languished, the In- 
dians who when not employed skulked about the 
premises, stole great quantities of materials. 
This angered the ’squire and he had several 
wordy arguments with certain redmen whom h( 
accused of the thefts. He also had several 


quarrels with his brother, and once it was 
rumored tried to shoot him. One morning 
Michael was found dead in the woods ; it was in 
the gap, not twenty feet from where he had been 
worsted by the panther. There was a bullet hole 
in his head, he had clearly met with foul play. 
Desmond let on that he felt the catastrophe 
keenly, and loudly blamed it on the Indians. He 
talked so much that ill feeling was engendered 
against the savages. The Indians, anxious to re- 
main in the locality, marched to the shanty in a 
body and demanded that the Irishman exhibit 
his proofs, and if he had any, they would all 
willingly submit to arrest. Desmond showed the 
‘white feather,^ he had nothing to say, and pub- 
lic opinion veered around to the redmen. This 
clinched the suspicion that Desmond was the 
slayer, but the simple farmers were too busy 
with their own labors to bother further about it. 

“Leaving the shanty, the unfinished manse 
and the materials in charge of his body servant, 
Desmond started east on horseback. He was 
gone fully a year. When he came back he brought 
a wife and baby, and the long-looked for coach 
and six. Then it transpired that he had married 


his brother’s widow, who was the real owner of 
the property. This change of fortune sobered 
him, for he was never known to drink again, 
and worked harder than his brother had ever 
done to develop the property. The house was 
finished, and became known as the ‘Folly.’ He 
had signs nailed up along the roads which read 
‘ To Rossmere, ’ but during his lifetime the 
natives always referred to the place as 
‘ Clawaghter ’s Folly. ’ 

“Desmond Clawaghter did not enjoy his pros- 
perity long. He caught pneumonia w^hile at the 
county seat prosecuting some cattle thieves, and 
died there in a public-house. He is buried in 
the graveyard of the Calvinists on the hill. I 
have often heard my father tell that he was out 
on the banks of the creek the night before the rich 
man died, not far from where we are standing 
now, and saw a canoe coming down stream 
guided by a one-handed individual. Half a 
dozen reputable persons saw it between here and 
the big river. The next evening came the word 
that Desmond had died in the ‘White Horse’ at 
Jacobsburg. You may think it strange that 
canoes could travel in this creek, the water is 


deep enough today, as you can see, but in the 
old days before the watershed was destroyed, 
canoes, rafts and arks regularly ran the creek 
from source to mouth — excepting in the very dry 
spells. 

“Desmond’s son William grew to manhood 
and managed the estate for his mother, being 
succeeded in turn by his son, Michael Ross 
Clawaghter, the father of the boy who is now 
lying so ill at the manse. The night before Wil- 
liam died the canoe, run by a one-handed man 
came down the creek at dusk. A hundred people 
saw it, and had it not been raining, some would 
have waded out and tried to stop it. Ross 
Clawaghter, as we called him, was a very high- 
strung man, and hated all the legends that had 
grown up around the family. He particularly 
disliked the canoe story; said it was a lie in- 
vented by a lot of jealous yokels. This talk did 
not add to his popularity, but he gained some of 
it back by sending his son to the old academy at 
New Berlin. The night before he died the canoe 
swept down the creek. 

‘ ‘ That evening I happened to be at the water ’s 
edge, putting the finishing touches on a raft. I 


had seen Ross that same morning, he seemed in 
perfect health, and had just completed a deal 
with him to run half a million feet of logs for 
him off Volkenburg Mountain. He had said he 
was going to help me on the job, that he was as 
good as any of the lumber- jacks. I was working 
away at the raft, with my head down, when my 
dogs began barking. I looked up suddenly and 
beheld the canoe with its one-handed steersman, 
I determined to lay the ghost if possible, so I 
yelled to it to stop, that I wanted a lift to the 
Coburn narrows; the Volkenburg rises straight 
up there from the creek. The ghostly figure 
neither turned to the right nor left, but worked 
its paddle harder, so it seemed to me. I had 
boots on so I plunged into the water, but it was 
gone under the bridge, and out of sight in the 
gloom before I got half way to midstream. Next 
morning a huckster told me that Ross had 
dropped dead from heart failure just after he 
had finished his supper. I inquired of my neigh- 
bors, gradually, so as not to make them suspi- 
cious, and everyone who happened to be out had 
seen the canoe. One of Jake Confer ’s boys 
wanted to shoot at it, but old Granny Confer, 










who was over ninety, wouldn^t let him, said it 
was the worst kind of luck to shoot at a ghost. 
That was just thirteen years ago, and I had for- 
gotten all about the ‘token’ until I saw it sweep 
under the bridge last night. I don’t know what 
made me come out, except that the kitchen was a 
little stutfy and I wanted a breath of air before 
going to bed. I was here, leaning on this cable- 
rail when I saw the skiff come out of the dusk. I 
could hardly believe my eyes, because if it was 
Douglass Clawaghter that was to go the whole 
county would sustain a big loss. I took off my 
hat, and stood bare-headed until after the ap- 
parition had passed under me. Everybody had 
been telling me that the boy was going to get 
well, it certainly was a great shock to me. I do 
hope it was all a dream or some mistake. It is 
queer, but the Clawaghters have all been a short- 
lived stock so far. They had everything to live 
for but Paradise had designs on them early. 
Michael they said was thirty-two when killed 
so mysteriously ; Desmond died at the age 
of thirty-five. William was within a month of 
his fiftieth birthday; Ross was about his father’s 
age when he passed away. Young Douglass was 


only thirty-one when he took sick, but I do hope 
that he will recover. They were not a popular 
family, all except Douglass, as they kept by them- 
selves, and never lost a chance to show their 
superiority. But there are a score of families 
like them in this and adjoining counties, a funny 
lot are the ‘old stock. ^ I wouldnT change places 
with them ; my father died at ninety, I am full of 
work at seventy-nine.’^ 

When the old man concluded his story we were 
soaking wet, as we were both so absorbed that 
we had forgotten to leave the bridge and go in- 
doors. We were about to do so when the keen 
eyes of the aged wolf-killer noted a huckster’s 
wagon coming down the road; it was still a 
quarter of a mile away, about on a line with 
Jonas Hartzell’s hillside walnut farm. We wait- 
ed on the bridge until it came near; it was a 
bizarre looking outfit, a closed box-like vehicle 
drawn by two hay-bellied calico mares. Box and 
wheels were encrusted with mud, the accumula- 
tion of many winter and early spring rains. Old 
David Frantz called to the driver to stop, and 
the fellow did so, leaning out his head above his 
rubber apron. 


“How’s young Clawaghter?” called the old 
man in breathless excitement. 

There was a pause and the huckster whispered : 

‘ ‘ Why do you ask me, you know as well as I do. ’ ’ 
“No, I don’t,” said the old wolf-killer im- 
patiently. “Well then, he died last evening 
about dark. They all feel powerfully blue up 
at the manse. ’ ’ 

Then regarding me he said jocosely: “Uncle 
David asks me if the young fellow died after 
knowing it since the minute after it occurred. 
You ask him if he saw a canoe run by a man 
with only one hand go under the bridge a little 
before dark last night. I know he’ll tell you he 
doesn’t believe in ghosts, but he saw that one all 
right enough, and more than once. ’ ’ 

He then slapped the reins on the mares’ 
broad, spotted backs, and the heavy mud- 
smeared vehicle began to flounder its way along 
the road towards Coburn. Just as he got almost 
beyond earshot he stuck his fat head around the 
corner of the wagon shouting, “Oh you sly old 
fox, you don’t believe in ghosts!” 

The old hunter turned to me sadly, saying, 
“that young man deserved more respectful talk. 


after he was dead, but I suppose he’s paying up 
for the unpopularity of his ancestors. ’ ’ 

Silently we wended our way over the bridge, 
looking down at the grey turbulent waters that 
flung themselves over rocks and submerged roots, 
and swept under the bridge, the waters that had 
carried to eternity the mystery of the Clawagh- 
ters. It was a sealed book now, the ghost had 
carried away the death message for the last time, 
the proud house ended with the young man who 
had just passed away. We were soon in the old 
hunter’s cozy kitchen, where on a big old- 
fashioned settle by the stove he began to tell of 
his experiences with the wolves of the Seven 
Mountains. The stories were positively refresh- 
ing and bright after the doleful chronicle of 
the successive masters of “Rossmere.” When 
each was finished, I asked for another ; old Uncle 
David seemed to have an inexhaustible supply. 
When I started to go I told him how glad I was 
to have met a man who had experienced so much ; 
he had lived more vividly than many dwellers in 
a metropolis. And to this day when I pass the 
little log cabin on my mountain trips, I point it 
out to my companions saying, “in that little for- 


IN THE SEVEN r.iOUNTAINS 


113 


est encircled house lived a man whose experiences 
were far more varied than almost anyone I 
have ever met.’^ Then my thoughts always turn 
to that wet morning in March, when I arrived on 
the scene, so soon after the final passing of the 
house of ‘ ‘ Rossmere. ’ ^ 


V. 


THE LOGAN BROTHERS. 

(Story of Two Indian Chieftains.) 

HE lamented Elihu Jones, in 
his fascinating work on the 
Juniata Valley, makes the in- 
timation that there were two 
Indian chiefs named Logan. 
Although the book obtained a 
wide circulation and has be- 
come a classic, most people 
have labored under the impression that but one 
chief of this name existed. While the two braves 
were brothers, they were decided individualities, 
as different as brothers could possibly be. James 
Logan, the high-minded orator whose wrongs 
have echoed in the ears of the multitude was the 
elder of the two. In personality he was the 
more aggressive, and consequently he has been 
given credit for all the places which now bear 
the name. The younger brother, John Logan, 
was more identified with the Seven Mountains, 
and his career is more closely allied to the pur- 
114 



poses of this work. For him the Logan Spring 
near Reedsville was named, also the Logan Val- 
ley, Logan Township, also that historic old hotel 
in Altoona, the Logan House. It was for the 
older brother, James Logan, that Loganton and 
Logan Mills in Clinton County were named. The 
Logan brothers were both horn on the beautiful 
Isle of Que, near Selinas Grove, which afterwards 
belonged to the celebrated Col. Conrad Weiser. 

Shickelemy, their father, was a famous chief 
of the Mingoes, or as the French called them, the 
Iroquois. He was said to be a half breed. 
He had met, and conceived a violent admir- 
ation for James Logan, the private secre- 
tary to William Penn, naming a son, who was 
born soon afterwards in honor of the provincial 
official. He liked the sound of the name so well, 
that another boy who was born fourteen months 
later was also named Logan, with a John as first 
name, so that they could be distinguished from 
one another. Shickalemy had four sons older 
than James Logan and John Logan. They were 
given Indian names, and probably died before 
attaining manhood. At any rate James Logan 
soon appeared as the head of the family, and his 


handsome face and figure, his oratorical and 
warlike powers, gave him a pre-eminence occu- 
pied by few of his race. John Logan, whom 
William Maclay described as one of the hand- 
somest men he had ever seen, was of a retiring 
nature. He seldom spoke, was essentially a 
‘ ‘ family man. ’ ’ At the death of Shickelemy the 
rulership of his territory passed to J ames Logan, 
whether because of his seniority or aggressiveness 
is not known. He lived for a time on the plains 
in Middle Creek Valley, and then passed further 
west, making his headquarters at the Sulphur 
Spring, a short distance from the present town 
of Loganton. He was extremely fond of drinking 
sulphur water, saying that it stimulated the war- 
like qualities, which he intuitively felt that his 
tribe must eventually use against the whites. 
He compelled his warriors to drink the water, 
each brave having his private gourd. These cups 
hung about the spring attached to the limbs of 
trees, so that it resembled a European watering 
resort. His superior courage, intelligence and 
strategy made him a marked man from the first 
with a certain element in the government. To 
these men every clever Indian chief was a menace 


as long as he lived. The redmen could not be 
robbed of their lands, their wives and daughters, 
all their rights, and be shoved further west with 
impunity while they had leaders who were con- 
scious of these injustices and demanded redress. 

Teedyuscung had paid the death penalty ; his 
murder was certainly arranged by the whites, as 
he told too many truths about the robberies per- 
petrated against his race. Shickelemy by his 
complaisancy escaped a similar fate, by con- 
stantly yielding he was allowed to live. Bald 
Eagle early soured by an unhappy love affair 
with a white girl, Mary Wolford, vented his un- 
happy feelings by murdering the leading settlers, 
so his purpose in opposing white encroachments 
was not altogether prompted by unselfish mo- 
tives. Cornplant was bitter in his denunciation 
of the Indians’ treatment by the whites, and for 
years was a marked man. James Logan, who 
bid fair to be the boldest champion of the In- 
dian’s rights, had a price set on his head before 
he was twenty. 

A renegade white man, his name is known but 
as his family is prominent in Central Pennsyl- 
vania it is best not to publish it, who had helped 


Bald Eagle in his dastardly murder of James Q. 
Brady, the ‘‘Young Captain of the Sueque- 
hanna” in 1778, reported to James Logan that 
he had seen a letter from a prominent Quaker in 
Philadelphia which read, “Young Logan is a 
dangerous man. His rare oratorical gifts make 
him a vital force in inciting his people against 
the interests in control; he should be removed 
from the scene before he accomplishes any 
harm. ^ ^ After this, the sagacious Indian accepted 
cum grana salis all the protestations of friend- 
ship which the whites showered on him. It was 
sarcasm when he alluded to the “white man^s 
honor. 

Look on the pages of history and you will find 
none of this. The same “inside ring^^ who made 
fortunes exploiting the lands of inland Pennsyl- 
vania before the revolution survived its vicissi- 
tudes, and maintained their grip until the last 
acre was apportioned. The Indians were a thorn 
in their sides ; they silenced them whenever they 
could, they subsidized history to make it conform 
to their side of the case. A few fragments of 
Teedyuscung^s bitter denunciations of the whites 
are preserved; still fewer of James Logan’s re- 


marks on the same subject. When Logan’s words 
came near forcing their way into history the 
story was started that he did not compose his 
speeches, that they were the flowery productions 
of some white man. But Chief James Logan did 
do all he could to have the Indians’ rights safe- 
guarded, although he knew every time he spoke 
his chances of dying a natural death were 
lessened. 

His brother John took more after the syco- 
phantic Shickelemy. He was always giving 
way to the whites; as long as they left him 
enough ground for his cabin and his corn-patch, 
provided it contained a good, sweet spring, they 
could have all the rest. Gradually he was forced 
in a westerly direction, far from the beautiful 
isle where he was born. When on a hunting ex- 
pedition with his father he had spent a night at 
the big spring near Reedsville, which became so 
indelibly associated with his name. Of all places 
visited, the memory of this ideallic spot lingered 
longest. When he realized that he must make 
a final stand somewhere, his mind traveled to 
the beautiful spring, to the tranquil valley in 
which it was situated. He resolved to go there 


and stay, come what may until the end of his 
days. He had never resisted the whites in any 
form, their secret agents knew this, and the 
“powers that be’’ were willing to grant a favor 
to a “good Indian.” Consequently when he 
moved with his family to the “Logan” spring it 
looked as if he would live there in peace and 
quiet. In this he was correct, as no efforts were 
made to disturb him. It is true that the spot 
was envied by numerous settlers, some of whom 
made furious protests against ‘ ‘ a nest of Indians 
in their midst.” But the peaceable chieftain 
held his ground, working in his beloved corn- 
field, fishing in Jack’s Creek, Honey Creek and 
Laurel Run, occasionally netting heath-hens or 
wild pigeons on Sample Knob. The more solid 
citizens respected him ; he was on friendly terms 
with many of them. He was often a guest at the 
homes of the Hershbergers and McVeys. And 
yet, in the minds of most people of today, the 
Logan Valley derived its name from the un- 
happy, discontented, suspicious James Logan, 
whose gloomy life seemed to forbode his tragic 
taking off. 


James Logan was not a hypocrite. He de- 
spised his brother for his truculent attitude, 
urging him to give up his one hundred acres and 
security for the broader field of maintaining the 
rights of the vanishing race. 

“The same people who let you live here are 
not your friends ; I have seen papers that prove 
it/^ he entreated. “If some one influential 
enough wanted your log cabin, or your corn- 
field, or your wife, they would put poison in your 
spring; they would not hestitate for a minute. 

But John Logan shook his closely-cropped 
head. 

“I believe most of the white folks are honest, 
that they will not molest me nor my family. I 
feel that I will always he allowed to live here.'" 

In this world events are mainly a matter of 
‘ ‘ how a man thinks. ’ ^ James Logan, distrustful, 
unhappy, vengeful, prophesied a tragic end for 
himself, and got it. John Logan imagined the 
white people to be his friends, that he would 
live and die at his spring, and so it came to pass. 
The only pity of it is that the identity of the 
two chieftains became confused in history. In 
almost any historical work on the early days in 


Pennsylvania we read accounts of the “famous 
Mingo chief Logan’’ — but which one ? It was the 
multiplicity of places, of events, of unreconcilable 
dates, that caused investigators to doubt how 
one man could have done so much, been so many 
places at the same time. The peaceful, silent 
Logan tilling his corn-field and living humbly 
by his spring seemed a very different being 
from the errant, defiant, eloquent Logan who was 
so cruelly murdered in Ohio. Elihu Jones 
gives the true story, but as yet it has not been 
generally incorporated in the school histories. It 
is stated that the final reason for James Logan’s 
resentment against the whites was based on their 
refusal to allow his family to remain in Pennsyl- 
vania. It was intimated to him that he must 
move west; he was willing to go, but he feared 
the perils of a long journey on his family. When 
he had comfortably settled on the banks of the 
Muskigum, a company of regulars swooped 
down on the harmless family circle, butchering 
them in cold blood. 

When Logan, who was absent at the time, re- 
turned, finding his race destroyed, he dropped to 
the ground, lying in an unconscious condition for 


three days. As he came out of his stupor, he 
raved in delirium. He begged to be taken back 
to the Susquehanna, to the beautiful Isle of Que 
where he had spent such a happy boyhood. His 
appeals were heartrending, and some of the at- 
tendants were almost moved to construct a litter 
and bear him to his old home. The general dis- 
like felt by the white settlers for Logan and his 
followers was such that it was deemed best not 
to venture on such a pilgrimage. 

As the bereaved warrior regained his strength 
he was firm in his determination to revisit Cen- 
tral Pennsylvania. The longings of his sub- 
conscious self as expressed in his delirious 
moments were echoed by his vital personality. 
He would have made the journey attired in full 
warrior’s regalia, and attended by a faithful 
bodyguard, but some of the older braves coun- 
seled against it. The temper of the people, in- 
flamed by false reports sent broadcast to coun- 
teract any protest against the wanton murder of 
James Logan’s family, had made it unsafe for 
any Indian chief to travel openly. There was no 
use being waylaid and shot, or lodged in some 
filthy jail just to satisfy a craving of the spirit. 


But the heartbroken Indian demanded some 
change of thought currents to divert his mind 
from his murdered family. The old men argued 
together and decided that as the chief’s health 
required the trip, it might be taken in perfect 
safety incognito, Logan was so emaciated from 
his long illness that his best friends would have 
had trouble in recognizing him, but other dis- 
guises were deemed necessary. He was garbed 
like a German emigrant, and a false beard made 
from horse-hair almost covered his aquiline face. 
Armed with a German rifle, and unattended, he 
started on foot for the scenes of his youth. He 
carried a pack of provisions on his back as was 
the custom with many foot-travelers. The coun- 
try was full of restless Germans, many of them 
sunburned as dark as Indians, who were moving 
from place to place, looking for satisfactory 
spots to locate ; one more or less added to this un- 
kempt horde might not be noticed. As an extra 
precaution he decided to travel by night, sleeping 
in dense thickets by daylight. Like all Indians 
he could ‘‘see like an owl;” the Indian race was 
nocturnal by habit if the matter was carefully 
investigated. With a heart full of mingled re- 


grets and hopes James Logan started on the first 
night of the dark of the moon. His first stopping 
place was to be his brother’s home near Reeds- 
ville. Here he had planned to remain a month, 
enjoying the society of his relatives. As he 
neared the familiar hunting-grounds of the 
Seven Mountains his wounded heart leaped with 
joy. Thrilling elk and buffalo drives were re- 
called; with them came memories of his grand 
old father, his brothers, most of whom were now 
dead. He saw some big game on the way, but in 
sadly diminished numbers. He met three bull 
elks on one occasion, five cows on another. He 
only encountered one buffalo, a great rangy ner- 
vous brute, with sad bloodshot hunted eyes. He was 
afraid to fire his rifle, lest some one hear him, 
and perhaps penetrate his disguise. It was far 
easier to sleep all day than to run any risks — six 
months amid familiar scenes would warrant all 
the forebearance exercised in getting there. 
John Logan did not expect him; he was sitting 
under a linden tree, smoking his long pipe, when 
the prodigal brother tramped up the lane. He 
of course thought him to be a German tramp, and 
greeted him with a cheery. gekts.** ^ 


Logan, whose stern face had not relaxed in 
many months, ripped off his wig and beard, and 
laughed heartily. The brothers embraced, and 
both shed tears. While they had never been very 
congenial in the past, they needed one another 
now. John Logan had heard vague, distorted 
reports of the massacre of the Muskigum, and 
now was told the awful tale from the lips of the 
chief sufferer. Always ready to forgive and 
condone the white men’s faults, it was a severe 
tax to John Logan’s amiability to hear this 
frightful recital. Women, including the aged 
mother of the two chieftains, old men and chil- 
dren cut to pieces in cold blood by United States 
regular troops was beyond the imagination of the 
blood-thirstiest savage ! 

“For this I will have revenge before I die,” 
concluded the stricken chieftain. 

“For once in my life I concur with you in 
your wish,” said John Logan, under his breath. 
Then he looked about furtively to see if any 
eavesdropper was near. 

“Forget about it for the time being, my brave 
brother, and pay us a good long visit,” said 
brother John, placing his arm about the now 


sobbing form of the once greatest warrior of the 
Mingoes. James Logan no doubt would have 
enjoyed his sojourn at the hospitable cabin had 
it not developed that someone on the way had 
recognized him. The story was brought to the 
neighborhood that the murderous chief James 
Logan had appeared, deeply disguised, evidently 
he was bent on mischief. Within twenty-four 
hours the rumor became distorted into the form 
that the noted Indian had killed a peaceable 
German on the road, had disguised himself to 
escape justice. Some newly-arrived Germans, 
with all the old world prejudices, became 
alarmed lest they be implicated for allowing 
an Indian warrior in the neighborhood. They 
were used as a foil by some of James Logan’s 
old enemies to oust him from his brother ’s cabin. 
A committee of settlers sent a messenger to the 
little cabin, summoning John Logan to appear 
before them; they were to meet on the hill, un- 
derneath which the turbulent waters of Laurel 
Run suddenly sink out of sight. The old Indian 
concealed the cause of his departure, as he hated 
to w^orry James with this fresh trouble. He 
made haste to the meeting ground, where were 


IS 


assembled most of the settlers in the valley 
whom he had counted as his friends. He told 
them that he was unaware that his brother had 
committed any wrong, or was wanted in any 
part of the country on criminal charges. He 
had lately suffered a crushing bereavement in 
the massacre of his entire family, that he had 
come to the “big spring’^ to spend a few months 
in peace and quiet with his relatives. There 
seemed no reason why he should be driven from 
the locality. 

John Logan, generally so taciturn, quite sur- 
passed himself in the eloquence of his appeal 
for his persecuted brother. Those who were dis- 
interested favored allowing James Logan to re- 
main as his brother’s words bore the stamp of 
truth. But others more influential, who were 
obeying secret orders from the “league of land- 
grabbers” objected loudly; said the Germans 
would leave the valley; their will prevailed. 
John Logan asked one more favor of the as- 
semblage, it was that if his brother was com- 
pelled to quit his roof, that he could continue 
his journey across the mountains to the scenes 
of his childhood at. the Isle of Que - and drink 


once again from Molly Bullion's spring. The 
same parties objected to this, if James Logan 
wished to keep out of jail, he should return to 
Ohio. If he persisted in touring in the east, some 
charges could be brought against him which 
would cause him to end his days in prison. John 
Logan again denied that there were any charges 
but his words were drowned in an angry uproar 
raised by the representatives of the predatory 
class. Crestfallen and disappointed, the old In- 
dian slowly wended his way back to his planta- 
tion. There he had to break the news to James 
Logan, to tell him why he was called to ‘‘council 
hill,’’ and the result of the conference. The 
persecuted warrior bowed his head sorrowfully. 

“It is ever thus,” he muttered, “no resting 
place exists for me in this world. I have been a 
marked man ever since I uttered my first public 
words against the robbers of my birthright. My 
lands are stolen, my family murdered, my tribal 
organization broken up. I am a wanderer on 
the face of the earth.” Then he took his pack 
from its hook on the wall, and began unstrap- 
ping it. He asked his brother’s family to fill it 
with provisions for a long journey. Logan’s 


wife and children were grieved to think that 
their noble uncle must leave them so soon; yet 
his brief stay was destined to be remembered for 
the rest of their lives. The entire family ac- 
companied him down the lane, under the shady 
arch of acacia trees. The brothers embraced as 
they parted. It is always ‘‘as a man thinks.” 
James Logan’s last words to the family were; 
‘ ‘ This will be my final trip. Once back in Ohio, 
away from any friendly influences, my enemies 
will kill me.” They watched the bent and mel- 
ancholy figure going down the road, in the clear 
light of the golden hour, for he intended tramp- 
ing all night. “Farewell, brother,” cried out 
John Logan, as he was lost to view. Not long 
afterwards, in 1780, came the news of his 
dastardly murder on the Ohio. 


VI. 


DORMAN PANTHER. 

(The Life Story of a Noted Hunter.) 

HE stage from Lewistown 
was three hours late; dark- 
ness had set in, all the 
windows in Bannerville were 
ablaze with light. The peep- 
ers sang vociferously in the 
stream and marshes, other- 
wise there was an oppressive 
stillness in the little town, the stillness of ex- 
pectancy. The reason for this was that a dozen 
young men, natives of the village and surround- 
ing country, who had been soldiers in the bloody 
war with the Southern States, which had lately 
come to a close, were due to arrive after their 
years of active service at the front. Their valor- 
ous deeds as reported by the county newspapers 
and letters home had already made them local 
heroes, superseding the grey-haired, middle- 
aged veterans of the conflict with Mexico. These 
old soldiers were in uniform tonight, anxious 

131 



to do homage to the younger boys in blue. Fully 
a thousand persons had gathered in the little 
community, crowding around the porch of the 
general store and post office as there the stage 
would come to a halt. It was hoped that it 
would arrive on schedule time, so that the young 
veterans could see the decorations. Three large 
flags hung from poles over the post office porch, 
the posts and roof of the porch were draped with 
bunting. Every little home along the hillside 
street displayed a flag, and some had the paling 
fences of their front yards festooned with colors. 
Lamps were placed in every window, so that the 
illumination would atone for the darkness which 
eclipsed the display of red, white and blue. 
Many of the young girls were dressed for the 
great occasion ; they wore blue and white muslin 
gowns, red sashes, and some even had on red 
stockings. They wore tiny flags in their hats, 
and those who had donned coats, for the May 
night was a trifle chilly, had rosettes of colors in 
the lapels, or carried small flags. Many horses 
were tied along the side alleys, munching the 
bark off the shade trees, as it was before the days 
of civic associations. All had their harness 


decked in colors ; even the heavy farm wagons to 
which most of them were attached bore patriotic 
emblems. A few town boys had tried to organ- 
ize a band; they had possibly five or six instru- 
ments, and were ready to strike up the only 
piece they knew, ‘‘Ring the Bells of Heaven 
when the stage hove in sight. 

The train at Lewistown must have been de- 
layed, it was conjectured, as when it was late the 
stage was always behind time. But the crowd 
was patient, and as the event was to be the 
greatest one in their lives, all w^ere awed into 
silence. It was nine-thirty when the shout went 
up that the stage had been sighted. Fully fifty 
small boys ran up the hill, and along the ridge 
that the highway followed, to obtain an advance 
view of the important caravan. The few per- 
sons who lived along the road, who had not made 
up their minds to come to the celebration, could 
not resist the sight of the stage crowded with 
soldier boys, and dropped in behind it, forming 
an irregular guard of honor. The big driver, 
who himself had been a soldier for six months, 
had put on his uniform for the occasion, and 
kept cracking his long whip, which was draped 


with patriotic streamers. The old lantern on the 
dashboard sent a light ahead on the road, and 
gave notice of the calvacade’s appearance. When 
it turned the corner at the beginning of the 
Bannerville street leading down to the post 
office, it was sighted by all, and a mighty cheer 
arose. The crowd surged towards the oncoming 
conveyance, and the horses could scarcely travel. 
So slow was their gait that a hundred stalwart 
youths fairly pushed the animals from the 
traces, brushed them aside, and seizing the pole, 
drew the big stage to the post office. When it 
stopped the young soldiers were dragged out 
bodily. They were embraced by parents, 
brothers, sisters, sweethearts, cries of joy 
mingled with hurrahs and songs. In the midst 
of this the tall leader of the band climbed to the 
post office porch, and adjusting his pine-torch, 
started his aggregation to playing, “Ring the 
Bells of Heaven.^’ The soldier boys, after hav- 
ing been half kissed and hugged to death by 
their relatives and sweethearts, were now being 
congratulated by the Mexican war veterans and 
admiring friends., iAn old blind man, bent 
almost double, a survivor of the war of 1812 


was helped through the throng by two of his 
grandsons, and shook hands with every young 
soldier. When the hand ceased playing there 
was another cheer, and then a big dark-com- 
plexioned Lutheran preacher rapped on the post 
office porch floor with a broom handle and asked 
a prayer of thanks for the safe restoration of 
the local soldiers. After this the district at- 
torney, who was also a congressional aspirant, 
who had come over from Swinefordstown for the 
occasion, delivered an oration. It was full of 
patriotic fervor, and was frequently interrupted 
by applause. After the speechmaking the young 
and old veterans were escorted into the store- 
house where an elaborate supper awaited them. 

A table of pine boards stretched the entire 
length of the long room, from the front door 
clear to the letter boxes in the rear. Muslin flags 
served as cloths. Among the many delicacies 
served was ice cream, a great rarity in the Seven 
Mountains in those days. 

One of the first of the young soldiers to 
alight from the coach was Lewis Dorman, the 
son of Widow Dorman of Dormantown, a village 
about three miles west of Bannerville. He was 


a handsome youth, of medium height and ath- 
letic build. He had clear cut aquiline features, 
his straight black hair, which was worn parted 
on both sides, was brought down over his ears. 
He had piercing black eyes, and wore a small 
black mustache, of the style which has become 
so popular with young men in the big cities 
nowadays. His mother was the first to greet 
him when he emerged from the vehicle, and the 
scene between the two was affecting. On three 
occasions he had been reported missing after 
important battles, but wounded though he was, 
he had been able to creep back through the ene- 
mies ’ lines to his own regiment. Happy as 
he was to see his beloved parent, the young 
cavalryman kept casting his dark eyes about 
the crowd, as if looking for someone else. The 
fitful light of lamps and pine torches was dim 
enough, but the congratulatory throng crowding 
about him, made it difficult to see very far. 
When he was able to climb on the post office 
porch, he obtained a good view of the assem- 
blage ; he presented a picturesque figure with his 
wide military trousers and blouse, his ehevroned 
sleeves, cap in liand. After he had stood the 


u 


suspense as long as he could, he turned to an 
aunt, to whom he had always confided his trou- 
bles, asking the whereabouts of Letty Lenoble. 
The good lady gazed at him in silence for a 
minute. 

“Haven’t you heard,” she whispered apolo- 
getically, “she ran off with that Yankee who 
worked on Berkheiser’s mill.” 

“When,” said Lewis, turning deadly pale, 
and letting his cap drop from his hands. “Why 
I only got a letter from her two weeks ago.” 

“It’s been about two weeks since she went 
away,” replied the aunt. 

His rosy color gone, the young soldier moved 
among the merrymakers like a ghost. Clammy- 
handed, he accepted their congratulations; he 
was the only person at the long table who did 
not eat; he was the only one in the throng of 
one thousand who was glad when the homeward 
pilgrimage began. He who had served his coun- 
try well, had been promoted to be a first ser- 
geant for general efficiency, was a good and duti- 
ful son, had been marked by fate for this sore 
trial. 


‘‘The Lord chasteneth whom He loveth/’ 
whispered his aunt to him, as the little family 
party drove silently homeward. The young 
sergeant’s mother was aware of his disappoint- 
ment; she did not need to tell him. She had 
hoped that he would not notice his sweetheart’s 
absence, but this silence told her that he knew 
all. Thus the homecoming was robbed of much 
of its gaiety; shadow instead of sunshine pre- 
vailed. When Lewis reached his little bedroom 
which he had quitted three years before, he 
found it just as he had left it; his favorite vio- 
lin rested on the dresser. The room was lit with 
candles, and the bed draped with an American 
flag. In these remote mountains patriotism 
lived in its purest form; there were no copper- 
heads or anglophobes to make it unpopular. He 
took out his leather wallet, which he had worn 
over his heart all through his enlistments, and 
re-read the date on his sweetheart’s last letter. 
It was April 14th, just three weeks before. The 
letter had taken a week to reach him, probably 
on the very day of its arrival Letty had eloped 
with the ill-favored Yankee. It was full of love, 
of hopes of his speedy return; the entire affair 


was a mystery. He remembered the Yankee 
well. He had come to Dormantown as a com- 
mon tramper. 

Ike Berkheiser had taken pity on him, washed 
him up and given him work. The fellow aban- 
doned liquor, worked faithfully, but was un- 
sociable and taciturn. He was a small man with 
a big, broad head, popped eyes, and when Lewis 
last saw him wore a stubby tramp’s beard. 
What the cameo-faced Letty, who was elegance 
itself, her skin was fine to the point of trans- 
parency, her nature sensitive and elevated, 
could have seen in this sodden individual was 
beyond comprehension. In a transport of grief 
he held her letters one by one over a candle, 
reducing them to ashes. Then he took out a 
tiny tintype, looked at it fondly, kissed it once, 
and held it over the fiame until the likeness was 
obliterated. The room smelled strongly of chem- 
icals, when he blew out the last candle. 

Lewis Dorman’s nature at twenty-one became 
warped by his crushing disappointment. He lost 
ambition, will-power, above all self-esteem. He 
placed himself lower than the brute who had 
run off with his sweetheart. He never touched 


his violin, an instrument for which he had 
seemed to possess much talent. He only did 
such work as was absolutely necessary around 
the little place; the farm had been sold at his 
father’s death five years earlier, and he spent 
most of his time in the woods, with his favorite 
bull terriers. The November of the year of his 
disappointment, it was in 1865, he killed an 
enormous brown bear in the “sink,” a rocky 
desert in the White Mountains. This determined 
him to adopt the career of a hunter, to secure 
specimens of the fierce animals which were 
then making their last stand in the Seven Moun- 
tains. During the winter he trapped a dozen 
wildcats, a Canada lynx or catamount, thirty 
grey foxes, a pine marten and several opossums. 
His record was the envy of the boys of the 
neighborhood. His relatives encouraged him, 
saying among themselves that he would forget 
his unfortunate love affair in the forests. Dur- 
ing 1866 he spent most of his time in the moun- 
tains. He went away in the spring, fishing and 
shooting water-fowl, exploring the least known 
streams and climbing the rugged peaks of each 
of the Seven Mountains. When he returned 


home in August he looked, so the neighbors 
said, ‘ ‘ like a wildman. ’ ^ He had let his hair and 
beard grow ; at twenty-two he could have passed 
for a man of forty. That fall he killed a brown 
bear, three black bears, one of the latter weigh- 
ing ‘‘hog dressed,^’ 542 pounds. It was the 
“ record black bear in the Seven Mountains for 
many years to come. He also killed a magnifi- 
cent stag, with a wide spread and nine points on 
each horn, which was also a record head for a 
time. He engaged in several unsuccessful 
panther hunts; others ranging over the same 
territory, notably Dan Treaster, Eph. Zerby, 
Johnny Swartzelland Calvin Wagner, killed mag- 
nificent specimens the same year. Otherwise 
1866 was a great twelve months for the young 
nimrod, Lewis Dorman. That winter he re- 
sumed his trapping operations, capturing in 
one month five Canada lynxes, the largest num- 
ber ever caught by one hunter in so short a 
period in the Seven Mountains. 

He spent Christmas at home, seeming in better 
spirits than usual ; once or twice he even played 
on his violin. He had built himself a log cabin 
near the “sink” which was adorned with hunt- 


ing trophies ; the array of heads, claws and horns 
was so formidable that two visitors from Mc- 
Veytown "were afraid to sleep in the shanty. 
There was a good market for the hides, and above 
what he needed for ammunition and provisions, 
he gave to his mother. He fished and hunted 
during the spring of 1867, but spent most of the 
summer at home. He shaved his cheeks, wearing 
only a chin-beard, and trimmed his hair; his 
family had hopes that he would soon become 
‘‘his old self.’^ That autumn he left home early 
in September, telling his relatives that he had 
located several panthers, and would devote his 
entire energy to this form of hunting until suc- 
cessful. On Little Panther Creek he killed his 
first black wolf, and was so elated that he sent 
word home with Indian Joe, another love-sick 
soul, who for years wandered aimlessly among 
the mountains. That was the last that was heard 
of the young hunter, directly or indirectly until 
the following April. The secret of his silence 
was that he had the misfortune to see Letty 
Lenoble. He had trailed a panther to the head- 
waters of Rapid Run in Centre County, and 


while looking for traces, came to a foot-path 
which led close to the creek. 

It was in the evening, and while thus engaged, 
he saw his former sweetheart walking along the 
path carrying a small pail of milk. They looked 
at one another, but neither spoke. Lewis lurked 
in the neighborhood for several days, ascertain- 
ing that the Yankee to whom Letty was married 
was running a steam sawmill on the south branch 
of White Deer Creek. He must have prospered, 
as he was working in some grand timber, had 
the latest machinery, a big crew of helpers, good 
horses in his barn. The house the family lived in 
was a model of neatness and convenience. All 
these evidences of happiness and success were 
too much for the discarded lover, so he wandered 
out of the country, into the North. He gave up 
hunting temporarily, working all winter at a log- 
ging camp on Little Pine Creek, near Waterville. 
He arrived home unexpectedly the latter part of 
April, 1868, unkempt and dejected. He confided 
to his mother and aunt the cause of his long 
silence, and received much loving sympathy and 
interest. His family tried to rouse him by saying 
that he must secure a panther, that the animals 


were being rigorously hunted for the $12 bounty 
which was paid in most of the mountainous 
counties ; there was no time to be lost. 

In September he consented to go on another 
hunt, but affirmed with a laugh that he would not 
return until he killed his panther. As a sign he 
intended staying a good while, he carried his 
violin with him. He amused himself shooting 
wild pigeons, turkeys and grouse until there 
came a tracking-snow, which occurred the first 
week in November. At the headwaters of Pine 
Hollow Creek, near the extreme eastern end of 
Centre County, Lewis’s bulldogs located four 
panthers, by their tracks two were enormous 
males, two females. Their keen senses appraised 
them of the danger, and they separated, two 
traveling east in the direction of the divide above 
the head of Rapid Run, two moving west, along 
the ridge above Pine Hollow. The pair which 
moved west, on account of the tracks of the 
male being the largest, the young hunter elected 
to follow. He kept within half a day of them for 
three days when a warm spell set in, followed by 
a week of rain, and the tracking was spoiled. He 
could not believe that they would cross his 


“line’^ and travel east, so he kept beating about 
in the vast pineries, gradually moving his po- 
sition west. A week of good weather, Indian 
Summer, followed the rain, but despite the 
dreamy allurement of the atmosphere, the hunter 
never relaxed his purpose. The weather again 
turned cold, and another tracking snow fell 
about December first. He found the trail again 
on Round Top Mountain, following it along the 
ridges to Mount Stromburg, near Coburn. There, 
a blizzard set in, and the crafty brutes, during its 
fiercest moments, doubled on their tracks, and 
started east. A thaw delayed his progress, but 
conditions soon righted themselves so that he 
again took up the trail which led over Paddy 
Mountain and along the ridges to Round Top. 
There the female left her mate, who moved north- 
east, across the Union County line towards Big 
Laurel Run. The hunt had now lasted nearly 
two months, the dogs were tired and restless, 
but Lewis Dorman was indefatigable. The male 
panther, evidently tired of his solitary life, for 
on the night of the 23d of December he roared 
loudly and long from the topmost pinnacle of 
Shreiner Knob. 


146 


Dorman, who with his dogs had bivouacked on 
a nearby ridge, never heard anything like this 
before, and sat awake all night by his fire, awed 
by the savage love-song. He unstrapped his 
violin, trying to catch the weird notes on his 
bow. It could only be likened to the music of the 
spheres. He had often heard about panthers 
wailing and screaming, but there was a majestic 
melody to the awful sound which seemed to be 
the very voice of the wilderness. At the same 
time the panther is naturally a silent animal, 
rarely making an outcry except at its mating 
season. Just as the morning star grew dim, far 
in the distance came what at first seemed to be 
an echo, in a minor key; it was the answering 
notes of the female. Something in Dorman’s 
blood told him that he would soon bring his 
quarry to bay. Muzzling his dogs, and placing 
them on leash, he crept on hands and knees 
through the snow. He descended the ridge, 
crossed the draft, and assumed a good location 
on the north slope of Shreiner. At dusk he 
found the trail of the female, and followed it to 
where she had hidden herself in an inaccessible 
position in the rocks, evidently waiting for her 


147 


lOl 


fulvous-coated master. The full moon, which 
had been entirely obscured the night before, now 
rose and shone at intervals. Across its face swept 
sooty colored clouds, the tips of the giant white 
pines soughed and murmured in the night wind. 
Dorman was certain that the male panther was 
in hiding near the summit, but would visit his 
mate that night. About ten o^clock he heard 
several short howls and moans and then, per- 
haps fifteen minutes later the two panthers 
emerged from the rocks. For a minute the 
moon-rays disclosed them, the male with blaz- 
ing eyes, was licking the female’s tawny 
coat, and stroking her with his tail, in pas- 
sionate ecstasy. Then clouds hid the light, 
the chase was not yet ended. In the dark- 
ness came several fierce roars of wild rap- 
ture. Suddenly the moon became clear, reveal- 
ing the male panther alone, stalking along the 
trunk of a fallen pine with head erect. Dor- 
man’s chance had come; he fired, there was a 
hideous shriek of pain, echoed in treble key 
high up among the rocks. Again he fired; the 
wounded panther leaped twenty feet into the 
air, and with a resounding thud, fell in a life- 


less heap in the snow. The hunter and his dogs 
hurried to the spot, and a cozy fire was soon 
crackling by the steaming carcass. While he was 
skinning it, far up on the rock-crested summit, 
came a sound like a woman’s sobbing. Was it 
the pantheress, conscious of her bereavement, or 
a banshee wailing of dead sorrows! 

That summer Eph. Zerby met a female 
panther with three cubs on the mountain west of 
Coburn ; probably it was this same brute. There 
were panthers in the Seven Mountains for the 
next fifteen years. Lewis Dorman finished his 
task, and after resting until daylight, started 
across the mountains to the Forest House, the 
nearest habitation, to enjoy a much deserved 
Christmas dinner. Azariah Banks, the Yankee 
proprietor, was delighted when he saw the 
hunter with his violin and his trophy which had 
the skull with it. 

“There have been several panthers around 
here lately, but by the size of the head, the 
teeth and the length of the skin, you must have 
killed the old daddy of them all.” The shrewd 
Vermonter knew how to make business out of 
his distinguished guest. He quickly sent out his 


two hostlers on horseback to notify the moun- 
taineers that there would be a Christmas night 
dance at the hotel, telling them to be sure to 
add that Lewis Dorman, a veteran of the 7th 
Cavalry, had brought a giant panther to the 
hotel, and would furnish the music with his 
fiddle. 

Before sundown the lumbermen and shack- 
dwellers, old and young, came flocking to the 
hotel, with their women folks. By this time 
Dorman and the landlord had stuffed the 
hide with sawdust; Mabelle Banks, the land- 
lord's pretty daughter, sewing it together so 
that it looked as natural as life. Big black 
buttons were inserted as eyes, and a skewer put 
in the maw so as to reveal the fierce teeth. It 
W’as set up on the shelf above the big fire place, 
and garlanded with ground pine. The dance 
began at eight o’clock, and the big room never 
held so many people before. Lewis Dorman, 
flushed with triumph, seemed to have forgotten 
his troubles. The dance music fairly flowed 
from his soul. During the first pause a slender 
blue-eyed girl, with curly chestnut brown hair, 
elbowed her way to the young fiddler’s side. 


160 


li T-HE S’---'" 


^‘Mr. Lewis Dorman, don’t you remember me; 
I’m Stella Berly, who used to work at Car- 
skaddon’s camp on Little Pine; I want to con- 
gratulate you for killing the panther and for 
your beautiful music. ’ ’ 

The young man looked at her with pleasure 
beaming from his eyes, he held out his hand, and 
clasped hers tightly. It was a joy to be appre- 
ciated. Instantly all the woes of his previous 
life vanished into the clouds of tobacco smoke 
which hung above him; he was born again and 
in love. Stella did not dance any more that 
evening, but sat close to the young man, fanning 
him. When at midnight an intermission was 
granted, they walked together out into the frosty 
night, under the cloud swept moon and the stars. 

“I have always liked you,” she said, taking his 
arm. “I almost died of grief when you left the 
camp that Saturday night without saying good- 
bye to anyone and never returned. I dreamed of 
you nearly every night. I never ceased feeling 
that we would some time meet again. You can 
imagine how my heart leaped for joy when news 
came to our camp out on Spruce Run that you 
were at the Forest House with a big panther 


you had killed, and would furnish music for a 
dance. Christmas had started in very dull for 
us. I said it was the dreariest one of my life. 
Your coming has made it the happiest. ’ ^ 

They were standing on the bridge which 
crosses Buffalo Creek, watching the foaming, 
surging torrent. The girl’s sincere words, her 
beauty and sprightliness awoke an emotion in 
Lewis Dorman’s nature such as he had never 
felt before. The blood coursed through his 
veins, he was supremely happy when he took her 
in his arms. 

“We will be married any day you say, dear- 
est,” he whispered, as they strolled back to the 
dancing-room. “We have a nice double house 
at Dormantown in Mifflin County. I had an 
aunt who lived in one-half of it until my father 
died; then she moved in with mother; we can 
live there and be supremely happy. ’ ’ 

“I know we will,” said the girl, whose life 
had been lonely ever since she had been left 
an orphan seven years before. “We can go 
after the preacher tomorrow, the sooner the bet- 
ter.” When the music struck up again, and 
Stella still sat by the violinist, the wife of the 


boss at the camp where she was employed whisp- 
ered to her, “I thought you were crazy for a 
dance tonight ? ’ ’ 

“I was,” answered the girl, smilingly, “but 
I met my old friend, Mr. Lewis Dorman, and 
we are going to get married tomorrow.” 

The young man smiled his acquiescence, and 
the buxom woman shook hands with them both. 
Others in the room noticed this, and soon the 
news was known to everyone. There was a 
scramble to congratulate the happy couple which 
was so lengthy that it almost broke up the 
dance. As soon as possible Dorman struck up 
the “Log Cabin;” playing it with more feeling 
than ever before, as he was thinking of a cottage 
where he hoped to live in peace and happiness 
with the girl who loved and appreciated him. 

Next morning the young couple were driven to 
New Berlin where they were married, the happy 
bridegroom presenting the panther hide to the 
officiating clergyman. In that manner it found 
its way into the Natural History Museum of the 
old academy. When the Swinefordstown stage 
reached Bannerville on New Year’s Eve several 
of Lewis Dorman ’s one-time army comrades were 


IN THE SE'/^-N MOUNTAINS 


163 


standing on the post office porch. When they 
saw the erstwhile “wild man of the woods” 
cleanshaven, save for his little dark mustache, and 
dapper and jaunty looking, climb out, assisting 
a very pretty young girl, one of them remarked : 
“What sights one sees when he hasn^t got a 
gun.” That night the young hunter presented 
his bride to his family circle; it was a happy 
occasion. Within a week soft yellow lights were 
gleaming in the windows of the side of the little 
house in Dormantown that had been dark for 
so long. 


VII. 


THE TOKEN. 

(A Story of Poe Creek.) 

BSALOM PLANKENHOKN 
was pretty thoroughly tired 
after the day’s threshing, 
and spent half an hour after 
supper trying to wash the 
chaff and dust off his head 
and face. When he climbed 
the winding stairs to his 
little bedroom under the roof he was ready 
for a good night’s sleep. The one window was 
a considerable distance from the floor, the sill 
was very broad, and through the open sash, 
while he lay in bed, he could watch the stars 
blinking. The late summer air was cool, and 
the din of the crickets and katydids seemed to 
shake the roof with their reverberations. He 
had expected to fall to sleep immediately, but 
he was over-tired, and it was fully an hour be- 
fore he was in dreamland. The katydids all 
but drowned the methodical snoring of Farmer 



154 


■ ' V. 


Rhinehart, who occupied the room directly be- 
neath. 

Absalom, whose father had died several years 
before, had been sent into the Seven Mountains 
to work for the farmer, and he liked the crude 
life on the upland farm better than in the 
more modernized regions of Ferguson’s Valley. 
He lay awake thinking of the busy day just 
passed, of the happy prospects that the crops 
would yield more than expected, of the many 
scenes incident to the arrival of the traction 
engine which pulled the thresher and separator. 
He had worked all day in the mow, it was a 
lively task, but he had found time to laugh and 
joke with the other boys; it was the great event 
of the year on the lonely farm. 

On three sides of the farmhouse and barns 
loomed the steep mountains. Very little timber 
of any value stood on them; here and there a 
punky original white pine reared its stag- 
topped head above the tangle of saplings ; there 
was a brown streak across the face of one of 
the mountains where a spring fire had traveled ; 
it looked lavender colored at sunset ; in the gold- 
en hour the white barkless trunks of dead pines 


near the summits stood out as distinctly as 
skeletons. Far away in the brushwood could 
be heard the cries of the jaybirds, the cawing of 
crows. On certain dark nights foxes barked 
along the foot of the mountains. After heavy 
rains Poe Creek roared, but in dry weather was 
inaudible. 

All these familiar scenes and sounds rose in 
the hired boy’s vision as he lay awake. Then 
his thoughts turned to the morrow, with the 
continuation of the same work; he saw himself 
breathing chaff, sweltering in the mow; he fell 
fast asleep. It was probably midnight when he 
awoke with a start. A misty veil or curtain 
hung over the window. It sparkled as raindrops 
do on a spider’s web. He looked more closely, 
it was the stars shining through the veil. It 
seemed to be rolling and coiling itself together, 
in the form of a waterspout. Head and arms 
appeared, but the figure, human as it was in 
outline, was veiled, unrecognizable, transparent. 
After assembling itself it swept across the room, 
so close to the bed that the awe-stricken boy 
might have seized it. Though overcome with 
terror, he could not keep his eyes off the ap- 



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parition. While it floated about the room he 
could not bring his senses to tell him what it 
was; his faculties were in a state of suspension. 
It could not have been present more than two 
minutes all told; soon it was by the window 
again, completely welling the aperture with 
filmy vapor. Then as if struck by a gust of 
night wind it disappeared completely. As its 
last vestige vanished the boy gave way to a 
paroxysm of fright, sitting up in bed crying, 
“it’s the token, the token, the token.” Then he 
buried his frowsy head under the patchwork 
comforts and cried himself to sleep. 

In his family before any member had died 
this filmy ghost always appeared; his mother 
had seen it before his father’s death, before 
the deaths of his youngest brother and sister. 
He had heard his father talk about it often in 
his lifetime; he who had seen it when he lost 
his parents, brothers, sisters and grandparents. 
The old folks had come from Berks County ; the 
“token” was omnipresent in the family then; 
they had a tradition that it had appeared to the 
family for centuries before that in Switzerland. 
It was probably as old as the family itself; it 


158 


^ lljCi bJ 


was a visible expression of their intuitive sense, 
their gift of second sight. On other subjects 
besides impending deaths they could have looked 
into the future had they but trained their souls ; 
but this was first developed as it was the most 
important happening in their prosaic lives. 

There is one old Pennsylvania family where 
a bird flies in the window a few nights previous 
to a disaster, with another it is the appearance 
in the yard of a strange black dog, which barks 
hideously all night. With still another it was a 
canoe in the nearby creek, manned by a one- 
handed being, which swept down stream the 
night the bereavement was to occur. When 
Absalom Plankenhorn awoke, as was his custom, 
before daybreak, his heart was heavy, his head 
ached and throbbed. Despite the starlight of 
the evening, the morning was overcast and 
damp. His first thought was that having seen 
the “ token, he should go home at once. Per- 
haps his mother was dying, or another of his 
little brothers or sisters. He had no letter to 
show to Farmer Rhinehart, he was afraid of the 
big fellow any way, yet he must pluck up courage 


somehow and tell him he was going to quit at 
sundown. 

All day long he worked faithfully, but un- 
smilingly. The other boys were in rare humor, 
their high spirits advanced with each day of the 
threshing. The engine spouted black smoke, it 
worked with a will ; the strawstack grew as high 
as the barn; it was a day full of energy and 
progress. The distant summits were a peculiar 
bluish grey, which always indicated rain in the 
Seven Mountains; every elfort was made to 
finish the work before a storm. Several times 
gusts of wind blew down clusters of yellow 
leaves from the old chestnut trees back of the 
barn, giving an almost autumnal aspect to the 
scene. The golden rod along the road was well 
advanced. At dinner time Absalom tried to 
pluck up courage to speak to the farmer, but he 
seemed in an impatient humor ; it would be best 
to wait until the thresher ‘‘blew off” for the 
night. With all the added energy, and extra 
hands, there was still a small jag to be threshed 
when the engine slowed down at dusk. Al- 
though it had run an hour and a half after the 
stave-mill across the narrow valley had given 


its goodnight whistle, the morrow would witness 
some more of it. Farmer Rhinehart was in a 
disgruntled frame of mind. He kept saying 
that if he had realized the extent of the crop 
he would have gotten twi|be \the number of 
extra hands, that he hated to thresh in the 
storm which was sure to come. 

‘ ‘ Look at them mountains, ’ ^ he kept saying as 
he tramped up the path to the farmhouse, ‘‘they 
never was like that and no rain.’’ 

Clearly this was no time to approach the 
farmer about leaving when he was regretting 
not having hired more helpers. The flannel- 
cake supper did not unbend him, he was moody 
when he sat on the kitchen porch afterwards ; it 
was foolish to think of expeciting consideration 
from such an overly-tired person. But the boy 
was determined to quit ; he had seen his 
“token,” death was nigh in his family; he must 
be on the scene. He recalled that one of his 
uncles traveled in from Freeport, Illinois, after 
seeing the banshee, arriving in Ferguson’s Val- 
ley just an hour before his mother, Absalom’s 
grandmother, passed away. As he sat on the 
porch while the farmers and threshers mopped 


their brows and smoked, he conceived the idea 
of slipping away during the night. All he could 
expect of Farmer Rhinehart would be “no;’’ 
there was not an hour to be lost. Had he been 
older and possessed of more will-power he 
reasoned that he should have left for home that 
very morning. He had no baggage except a 
little tin trunk, which he could easily carry on 
his shoulders. If he got away at midnight, he 
would be home by the following noon. He ought 
to be able to steal out of the house unnoticed as 
all of the family were heavy sleepers. Still, 
Zack, the watch dog, would be a force to be 
reckoned with. This dog, so family tradition 
stated, was the descendant of a shepherd bitch 
and a giant black wolf, one of the last to linger 
in the wilds of Poe Creek. 

Before going upstairs, Absalom slipped out 
to the smoke-house where he knew were kept 
some stout pieces of rope ; they hung on a set of 
stag horns. He selected a piece long enough to 
drop his little trunk out of the window, he was 
afraid he might hit it against the walls, and 
arouse the family if he carried it down the nar- 
row stairs. The family and the hired help went 


to bed at about the same time. All were so ex- 
hausted that they forgot to bid one another good- 
night. When Absalom reached his tiny room 
he took off his shoes, and packed them with the 
rest of his belongings in the trunk. When every- 
thing was in it, he bound the rope around it, 
and sat down on the bed to wait. 

The snoring in the room below soon began, 
but the boy waited until his silver watch told 
him that it was midnight, exactly twenty-four 
hours had passed since he had seen the “token.’’ 
Then he carefully lifted the trunk to the window 
sill, and climbed up after it. The window was 
scarcely large enough to push the trunk through, 
but he accomplished it, and dropped it slowly 
to the yard. Zack heard it nevertheless, barking 
loudly, and with his crest bristling, sniffed at it 
suspiciously as it rested among the hollyhocks. 
All was quiet again; Absalom waited until an 
hour had passed. Then he stole downstairs as 
noiselessly as possible. The hinges of the door 
at the foot of the stairs creaked as he pushed it 
open ; he knocked against the dough-tray as he 
passed through the kitchen, he had some diffi- 
culty in turning the lock in the door. In a 


moment he was out in the yard, only to be es- 
pied by Zack. Though the wolf-dog knew him 
well, he knew his duty better, and began his 
low, wingeing bark, so reminiscent of the ancient 
wolves of the Seven Mountains. As he always 
barked when a prowling wildcat or fox was 
about, the family, if they heard him, paid no 
attention. He followed the hoy to the front gate, 
alternately barking and snapping at his heels. 
Absalom kept whispering to him, ‘‘Zack, Zack, 
be a good hoy, be still. ’’ He slammed the gate on 
the dog, and started out the path which led 
across the mountains on the south side of the 
valley. At the foot of the first ridge, close to the 
creek, he had to pass the tie-camp where a con- 
tractor from Coburn was demolishing one of 
the finest white oak forests in the commonwealth. 
Here three ugly looking dogs rushed at him. 
Had he not found a handspike on the road, he 
might have been bitten. On the way up the 
mountain the promised rain began to fall. By 
the time he had reached the summit it was com- 
ing down in torrents. Several times he lost his 
way, stumbling about among the rocks and 
briars. His feet were cut and torn, he became 


drenched to the skin. The darkness was pro- 
found, the footpath became hopelessly lost 
among the tangles of vines and underbrush. Half 
way down the mountain the face of the cliff 
was serrated with huge rocks and crevices. Some 
of these formed caverns, the openings of which 
seemed logical as resting places until the day- 
light would set in. It seemed useless to flounder 
about in the tempest ; a few hours and all would 
be clear. The tired lad crept into one of these 
apertures, and sat down on his trunk. His back 
was sore, his feet hurt terribly. He took off 
his cap to let the water run off it. He leaned 
against the wall of the cave, he might have some 
comfort until daylight. Just as he was sinking 
into a doze he felt some shaggy object brush 
heavily against him. He sat up, looking about 
him in dismay. A huge female wolf, whose home 
he had pre-empted, had come in from the storm, 
was trying to oust the intruder. Perhaps she 
had young ones further back in the recess, was 
fearful for their safety. Absalom could feel her 
hot, fetid breath in his face. If he did not de- 
part quickly, she might become angered and 


spring at him. He had heard that wolves were 
ugliest when they had young. 

Swinging the trunk on his shoulder, he scram- 
bled from the cave, into the drenching rain. 
The she-wolf had proved an instrument in the 
hands of the ‘ ‘ token which was urging him on- 
ward. Down the mountain he struggled, once he 
fell on his face in a patch of brambles. He knew 
he was far from the path, but once off the moun- 
tain he would be all right — besides it would then 
be dawn. As he worked along he imagined he 
saw a slight greyness to the sky. It had seemed 
like an eternity getting off that mountain; it 
was due to get brighter. But the rain drove 
into his face fiercely, it confused his sense of 
direction. He fancied he saw a building ahead ; 
it looked like a great barn ; near it seemed to be 
a roadway. He was getting out of the woods sure 
enough! He scrambled forward, filled with 
fresh energy. He even jumped over logs and 
stabs. A giant grapevine heavily intertwined 
with a hickory tree impeded his path. He 
pushed his way through it; on the other side 
surely was the road. He lunged through, he 
stumbled, he turned head over heels, still cling- 


ing to his precious tin trunk; he uttered a cry 
of fear as he felt himself in swift running, cold 
water. He had fallen into a mill race; he must 
struggle for his life. The trunk submerged him, 
like many mountain boys he was unable to swim ; 
in his frenzy he held on to his belongings more 
tightly. The sweeping current carried him for- 
ward; almost in an instant he was tangled in 
the water wheels. There in the awful place he 
could only have one thought, the “ token of 
the night before had been for him, the storm 
and the she-wolf had been partners in his fate. 
The volume of water engulfed him ; he was help- 
less and dead within a short space of time. 

Miller Ratgebber did not visit his mill-build- 
ings for several days ; he sat indoors by the stove 
until the dismal coal rain had ceased. When 
the Keewaydin blew again, and fleecy white 
clouds circled above the points of the Seven 
Mountains, he was willing to resume his work. 
Something seemed to be choking the wheels; it 
might be drift from the three days and three 
nights of rain. All the creeks in the valley 
were badly swollen; some bridges had been 
carried away. With his hired man Sammy Grubb 


1C~ 


he went to investigate the trouble. To their 
horror, they found the remains of a young boy,, 
and a small tin trunk, almost inextricably 
tangled in the paddles. They took out the im- 
pediments, and then drove to Abundance to in- 
quire if anybody was missing. It was only when 
the coroner held his inquest that the identity of 
the dead boy was learned. 

can’t imagine why he should have quit so 
suddenly; he was a good boy and always wrote 
that he was perfectly satisfied,” said his mother, 
^‘except that he came of an old line family that 
had a ghost or ‘Hoken.” 


VIII. 


PIPSISSEWAY’S PINE. 

(A Story of Paddy Mountain.) 

E were crossing Paddy Moun- 
tain on a bright morning in 
the latter part of April, ex- 
periencing that wonderful 
sense of being born anew, 
which comes to everyone in 
the springtime who is fortu- 
nate enough to be in the 
mountains. We frequently stopped to gaze at 
endless ranges of brown hills, looking like the 
furrows of a freshly ploughed field, with the 
peaks of the Seven Mountains rising from them 
like sharp rocks upturned by the celestial plough- 
man. Here and there we stopped to pluck a 
violet, or to enjoy the sweet-scented loveliness of 
the arbutus or may-flower. 

The timber had been cut in the region that 
we were traversing, and here and there we 
crossed the abandoned routes of the branches of 
the prop-timber railways which had gridironed 
168 



the mountains to carry away to the mines the 
last of the forest monarchs. The mountains had 
grown up in hardwoods, mostly white oaks, and 
the buff colored autumn leaves still lingered on 
many of these. In our five-mile walk we did not 
see or hear a single bird; the warblers and the 
game birds were hidden in the tracts of original 
forest which remained; they would not bemean 
themselves by living in a slashing. We could not 
but help wondering that when the last patch of 
primeval trees were cut if it would mean the final 
extinction of the more picturesque forms of bird 
life. 

The heath-hen which had lived in the Indians^ 
cornfields was destroyed when the white men 
seized the fields, the paroquets which rested in 
aged lindens and elms by the inland creeks van- 
ished when the big trees fell, the wild pigeons 
lessened as the beechwoods were demolished. The 
hemlock warblers will doubtless sing their 
requiems in the last of the giant evergreens. 

It was a bleak region, this vast upland, when 
the sun went under a cloud; it was like nature 
denuded of all her make-up, standing before us 
in bare ugliness. But fortunately the sun shone 


most of the time, coaxing forth the fresh spring 
odors, and now and then encouraging to burst 
into love rhapsody, some amorous peepers in a 
bog. It was nearly noon when we came in sight 
of the modest cabin of Peter McNarney, one of 
the hermits of the Seven Mountains. When we 
reached it we saw nobody about, but soon located 
the quaint old man in his back-kitchen stewing 
milkweed shoots. The savory odor of this de- 
licious delicacy sharpened our already keen ap- 
petites. 

The little old man, with his long grey beard, 
resembling one of the gnomes in the stage pre- 
sentations of “Rip Van Winkle “ came forward 
to greet us, smiling with his bright Irish blue 
eyes. He, was in his shirt sleeves, and wore a 
battered black derby hat on the back of his head. 
Peter was not a hermit of the ordinary stripe, no 
unrequited love affairs, no religious asceticism, 
no hatred of the shams of the world had driven 
him into the wilderness. He had moved up on 
the high plateau about fifty years before, was a 
pioneer lumberman in that section. He never 
married because he was never able to find a 
woman pretty enough to suit him, who would be 


happy in the lonely forest, he said. When the 
timber was all gone he found himself stranded 
with his cottage on the bare mountain top, like 
the proverbial clam at low tide. He was of a 
cheerful disposition, and lived with his dogs and 
cats on the little which he had saved in the pros- 
perous lumbering days. 

He always had a good potful on the stove 
around meal times, and many travelers went out 
of their way to stop at his cabin for a toothsome 
repast. Like many Irishmen, he was strong 
in his likes and dislikes. If he fancied 
people’s looks he would invite them to re- 
main for dinner, if not, even though they 
might ask for accommodations, they would be 
told that they had better go on to Abundance or 
Indianville, that his larder was empty. One 
thing in his favor was that he liked most persons ; 
few suffered the unpleasantness of being turned 
away. He never asked for pay, but like the 
monks of St. Bernard, travelers were expected to 
hand him the value of the meals. My companion 
had known Peter for many years, consequently 
we were invited to remain to sample the milk- 
weed shoots, ^‘the first mess of the season.” They 


were truly delicious, served with a white cream 
sauce, more tender and richly flavored than as- 
paragus ; they fairly melted in our mouths. We 
left nothing in the pot, which pleased the old 
man, as milkweed shoots were the dish for which 
his cuisine was noted. The persimmon wine he 
gave us was also very good. 

After the feast we sat outside the door on a 
little wooden bench, surveying the limitless land- 
scape, and planning our journey for the after- 
noon. Across the ravine from the cabin, near the 
top of the opposite ridge, stood a gigantic white 
pine. It was fully a hundred feet high, green at 
the top, and shrouded in heavy, healthy foliage. 
It did not seem to be punky, it looked so thrifty 
and vigorous, that it was strange it should have 
been left by the rapacious loggers. We scanned 
the ridges in every direction, this was the only 
living original pine in sight. Perhaps it was an 
ancient “corner’^ or line tree, marked by the 
colonial surveyors, and had an interesting his- 
tory — at least it was well worth asking about. 
Peter laughed heartily when we pointed to the 
huge pine, and inquired of him its lineage. 

“Well, you may wonder that it is standing 


there ; I expected it to go a dozen times when the 
lumbermen swept over these mountains; but it 
survived every crew. I’ve gone out myself a doz- 
en times to slash it down, but I was never able 
to phase it. I don’t believe that it is a line tree, 
but it has an old and a queer story attached to it ; 
the queerest that I ’ve heard in all my years in the 
Seven Mountains. It goes back about five hun- 
dred years to Indian times, still I have every rea- 
son to believe that every word of it is true. Indian 
Joe told it to me when he was boss of the first 
crew which lumbered off the mountain where it 
stands; he knew all the old legends, and with 
all his other faults, I don’t think he ever told 
an untruth intentionally. 

“No doubt you have heard of the great chief 
of the Susquehannas, Pipsisseway; he had his 
royal lodge house in your country, in the Bald 
Eagle Mountains. He conquered most of the 
tribes in this region; his greatest victory was 
near Kock Springs in Spruce Creek Valley, over 
the Lenni Lenape, who came across the Indian 
Steps on the Tussey Mountains in an effort to 
capture all the northern valleys. Historians 
say that was in the year 1635. Pipsisseway 


II 


annihilated them, making himself the greatest 
figure in Indian history. After this sweeping 
victory the famous warrior came to this moun- 
tain to pay his respects to a venerable wise man 
who lived, so Indian Joe told me, right where 
my house now stands. From the sound of it all, 
Pipsisseway was so pleased with himself and this 
world that he aspired to have the inevitable ap- 
proaches of old age and death put off 
indefinitely. 

‘ ‘ Of the many wise men wholived in his domain 
the one on this hill was the greatest. Most of 
them had flocked around the victorious king but 
this one remained on his mountain. It whetted 
Pipsisseway ’s curiosity to see him; he could 
not return to his home on the banks of the Sus- 
quehanna until he had indulged in a thorough 
talk with this indifferent soothsayer. Further- 
more he had heard that the wise man was a hun- 
dred years old, yet straight as an arrow, keen- 
eyed and vigorous. If he could stay the hand 
of time for himself perhaps he would place a 
like spell on the mighty monarch. 

‘‘It was a great day when the king arrived 
with' his army of retainers. He fully expected 


to awe the ancient wise man, to get anything he 
wanted from him. The soothsayer emerged from 
his hut at the approach of the royal party, and 
advanced boldly. He was a splendid looking 
man, erect like an original pine, and looked hard- 
ly a day over thirty-five. 

“After king and wise man exchanged formal 
greetings, Pipsisseway ’s herald recited a lengthy 
address to the soothsayer. It went on to say that 
his majesty was conferring a great favor, a 
condescension in fact, to go so far out of the way 
to visit an obscure wizard on his lonely moun- 
tain top; that most of his kind would he over- 
joyed to be granted even a brief audience at the 
royal headquarters; that he should feel highly 
honored, and be willing to perform anything 
which the famous warrior and king might re- 
quest of him. Throughout the harangue which 
lasted over an hour, the wiseman remained un- 
moved, his lip curled disdainfully, he was 
clearly unmoved in the presence of royalty or 
its satellites. 

“With dignified reserve the wiseman responded 
that, he would be pleased to do all in his power 
for the great king, that his sole purpose in life 


was to alleviate the wants of humanity. Then 
the royal stewards spread a carpet made of 
a hundred panther skins, and a sumptuous 
repast was served. The wise man was seated 
on the king’s right hand, an unprecedented 
honor. During the meal Pipsisseway talked 
constantly about himself and his victories, 
of how he was going to perpetuate his 
name in the regions over which he ruled. He 
said he believed that he was the greatest man 
who had ever lived, that he was made of different 
material from the ordinary mortals. He went on 
to explain that when he cut himself blood of a 
purple color flowed ; other beings had red blood. 
He could not understand why at times he 
suffered from had health like common people. 
He should have been allowed to escape the ills 
of the flesh; they should belong to the plainly 
born. He never allowed the wise man to get in 
a word ‘edgewise,’ as we say in the mountains. 
It was so sickening that the soothsayer’s desire 
to eat was destroyed. He had to force down 
the food and drink, as it was a crime punishable 
by death for a king’s dinner guest not to empty 
his dishes and drinking vessels. 


‘‘After the meal the king suggested to the wise 
man that they take a walk together, as he had 
some subjects which he wished to discuss with 
him privately. They strolled down the moun- 
tain, across the ravine, and up the face of the 
opposite ridge. The vainglorious king did not 
mince words. He said he realized that he was 
indispensable to the welfare of his people, to the 
entire Indian race for that matter; it would he 
an irreparable calamity if he should grow old or 
die. It would be conferring a lasting favor on 
humanity if such a rare being could be conserved 
to this life. In their stroll they paused under an 
enormous white pine, which towered above its 
fellows. It was of the variety we call a “cork’’ 
or Michigan pine; the bark was smooth and a 
golden brown, the needles very thickly clustered 
and a shining bottle green in hue. The branches 
grew far down on the trunk, the lower ones 
wide, gradually narrowing towards the top into 
a delicate tuft or crest. It is the lone pine you 
see yonder. 

“ ‘I noted with pleasure your answer to my 
herald’s address, that you would do all in your 
power in my behalf,’ said Pipsisseway. ‘I knew 


17H 


this, else I would not have traveled so far to see 
you.’ He placed his hand on the wise man’s 
shoulder, and said with emphasis : ‘ I would like 
you to bestow on me the gift of immortal life, 
also of immortal youth.’ The wise man looked 
at his king dumbfounded. 

‘ ‘ ‘ Sire, ’ he answered, ‘ I would love to do any- 
thing in my power to aid you, hut the things 
you ask I am unable to perform; I possess a 
certain wisdom, but I do not rank with the gods. ’ 
Pipsisseway’s heavy jaw dropped. 

“ ‘ I am astounded, ’ he gasped, ^ I was told that 
you could do everything, that you are a hun- 
dred years old, hut have miraculously preserved 
your youth. I will turn over to you one quarter 
of my domain if you will give me immortal life. ’ 
Even in this extremity Pipsisseway sought to 
drive a hard bargain. 

“ H do not believe that I am a hundred years 
old,’ replied the wise man, respectfully. ‘I am 
quite old, that is true, but I do not know my ex- 
act age. The couple who reared me found me 
floating on a large piece of hemlock bark on 
the Juniata, not far above its confluence with 


IN T ■ N SEv ‘ - j^OUNTAINS 179 


the Susquehanna. They never knew to which 
tribe I belonged or my age. I was probably one 
or two years old when they discovered me; to 
the best of my knowledge I am only in my 
eightieth year. ^ 

“Pipsisseway gazed at the soothsayer in speech- 
less wonder. He could scarcely realize that the 
erect, clear-skinned, black-haired figure before 
him was nearly half a century older than him- 
self. He, a king, of aristocratic blood, must 
grow old; this foundling had conquered time. 

“ ^How have you retained your own youth if 
you cannot preserve it for others ? ’ he demanded 
impatiently. 

“ ^By simple living, by loving my fellow be- 
ings, trees, flowers, birds and animals, by peace 
and calm, by purity, by lofty thoughts.' 

‘Do not I live the same wayN snapped the 
king. 

“ ‘You have a fine intellect, sire, but you have 
had every wish gratified. You have loved no one 
but yourself ; you have persecuted many. Change 
your nature and you will stay young. It is not 
within my gifts to aid you. ' 


180 


IN THE SEVEN MOUNTAlNi:> 


‘‘ ‘What can you do then?’ said Pipsisseway, 
‘you are nothing but an overrated person, a re> 
cluse with a halo of unreality. ’ 

“The wiseman kept his temper, and replied 
softly, ‘I can put the spell of immortal life on 
this tree under which we are now standing; it 
will be here five hundred years after you and 1 
are both gone.’ 

“ ‘ If you can do that, ’ growled the king, ‘ why 
can’t you help me?’ 

“ ‘This tree lives righteously, calmly; it has 
pure thoughts, lofty ideals. It harms no one, 
it only seeks the sun its god, it will reap its 
reward. ’ 

“The Wiseman’s mysticism was too much for 
Pipsisseway so he snapped that they had better 
return to the camp, the hour was late. Very 
little was spoken on the way, and king and wise 
man parted cooly. The soothsayer was kindly 
disposed, but Pipsisseway was in an ugly mood. 
He had met his match, he had found that special 
privilege has no place in the infinite. 

“Gitchi Manitto, the god of the Indians, evi- 
dently heard the words uttered under the ma- 
jestic pine. Within a few years Pipsisseway the 


mighty was stricken with swamp-fever, passing 
away despite all human efforts to save him. He 
died so completely that even his name was for- 
gotten. The wise man lived a score of years 
longer, dying as the old saying goes ‘full of 
years and honors.^ 

“The grand old pine which had heard the ex- 
pressed opinions of both men was blessed from 
that minute. It was given the greatest of gifts, 
immortality. When Indians built camp-fires 
beneath it the bark never became scorched; 
when they ventured to drive a peg in it on which 
to hang their kettles, their hands were seized 
with sudden weakness. They could not hold it 
long enough to strike with a mallet. When the 
first English surveyors visited these mountains 
they noticed the tree because of its conspicious 
height, as a likely corner. When they tried to 
mark it with their axes the bits flew off the 
handles, they could not strike it, try as they 
might. The first lumbermen came here about 
1862 to cut the choicest pines for spars in the 
navy. They selected the giant pine as the first 
to fall. When the axe-men drew near it they 
were attacked by a strange giddiness, their 


182 


IN THE SEVEN MOUNTAINS 


strokes went wide, they fell to the ground deadly 
sick and had to be carried back to camp. As 
there were so many other fine trees, they made 
no second attempt to fell it. A fierce forest 
fire came through here in the spring of ’64, the 
year after I built my first shanty. I was burned 
out, most of the green timber was killed, but the 
old pine escaped, without even so much as 
getting its bark blackened. I tried my hand at 
cutting the tree many times, just to see if I 
could do it; I lost enough bits to start an axe 
factory; I never was able to even nick it. I 
always became so sick, besides, that I had to lay 
up for a day or two after every essay. I said 
to myself, ‘old man, that pine isn’t for you; 
treat it well, and you will be happy; molest it, 
and you will never have any luck.’ 

“In the fall of 1890 some parties from Derrstown 
bought all the timber that was left on the moun- 
tains about here. That winter they took off the 
original pines. They tried to get Pipsisseway ’s 
pine, as I called it, but the axe-men fell about 
like a lot of steers at a slaughter house, every 
time they went to slash it down. The following 
summer they cleaned out the hemlocks, but kept 


IN V V tou 

away from the big pine. The next three or four 
years were spent cutting the yellow pines for 
props and the oaks for ties ; every axe-man took a 
look at the big pine; they seemed to know it 
was ‘not for all markets.^ After the prop- 
timber and tie men left several hot fires swept 
over the slashings, burning tops and branches to 
a crisp. The old pine came through them all 
without a mark ; it is a regular old fireweed ; I 
intend to be on friendly terms with that tree; 
it^s going to give me some of its vitality; I think 
it has already, for I^m pretty spry for one who 
is going on to eighty.” 

There was a pause, we took our eyes off the 
old hermit, and gazed at the sky, which was fast 
darkening. We gave him a present ^‘to buy some 
tobacco,” thanking him for the story and the 
dinner, and said good-bye. As we started on our 
way we looked across the ravine. The giant 
Michigan pine outlined against the coming 
storm was swaying its deep green branches, 
erooning softly and happily, in the fitful April 
windl 


IX. 


UNCLE JOB. 

(A Story of Two Comets.) 




U 




NCLE Job Conley was a good- 
sized boy of fifteen when in 
1835 he first saw Halley ^s 
Comet. The sight of the 
superb silver aureole tearing 
its way through the Eastern 
sky, made a profound im- 
pression on his awakening 
mind. An old German who was standing near 
him on the steps of the country store at the 
same time excitedly exclaimed, “that means an- 
other terrible war, or if it doesn’t mean that we 
are due for another cholera epidemic.” After 
most of the crowd had looked at the silvery orb 
until long past their bedtimes, and one by one 
had ambled out the tree-hooded lanes to their 
quiet little candle-lit homes, young Conley stood 
speechless and alone in admiration. 

Col. Ezra McCann, who lived at the manor 
house, happened to be engaged in a business 
184 






transaction with storekeeper Durst that night, 
and when at ten o^clock he emerged from the 
cozy office he notieed the boy gazing intently 
at the superb constellation. He knew the lad 
slightly, and spoke to him in a pleasant manner, 
referring to the magnificence of the heavens, 
and how the comet had lessened the dignity of all 
the stars. The boy^s replies were so intelligent 
and interested that the Colonel, who was the 
leading man in the neighborhood, asked him if he 
would care to ride with him as far as the gate of 
“Kildarry,’’ which was on the road to young 
Conley ^s modest home. The boy accepted with 
marked alacrity. He did not mind the walk ; he 
took it every clear night, but he wanted a chance 
to continue the delightful conversation about the 
heavenly bodies. 

Col. McCann let the horse walk most of the 
way, especially when they came to open spaces 
where there were no trees to obstruct a view 
of the spangled sky. The Colonel explained var- 
ious theories of the beginning of the universe, 
which were at variance with what Job had 
learned at Sunday School; they set his mental 
forces tingling. He told the boy the names of 


IN 


18G 


the leading constellations and stars, the story of 
the moon and the tide, but above all recited the 
thrilling history of the comet and its periodical 
fe-appearances. 

“Scientists have calculated,” he said impres- 
sively, “that the comet reappears in this latitude 
at regular intervals of seventy-five years. It 
will be back again as sure as mathematics can 
make it in the spring of 1910. How old are you, 
young man?” he said suddenly, to which the boy 
replied that he had passed his fifteenth birthday 
the previous November. 

“I will not be here in 1910,^^ said the Colonel 
sadly, ‘ ‘ it will he another case of ‘ Caesar turned 
to clay, ^ but you, with your strong physique and 
clean life ought surely to, 'barring accidents. I 
wish I knew where I would be in seventy years 
or seven!** 

It was not long before they reached the iron 
gate which led into “Kildarry,” and here the 
young man alighted, thanking the colonel and 
wishing him good night. As he headed his 
Morgan horse towards the drive the fine old 
gentleman called back, “don’t forget, the comet 
will be back in just seventy-five years ; live by 




TS 


18 . 


that fact, and set your hopes on seeing it again. 
When you do, give a thought to this night and to 
me, floating somewhere in the ‘great perhaps/ 
Then he cracked his whip, and was gone up the 
darkened roadway. 

The boy was deeply impressed by the words of 
this educated free-thinker. For years it was 
hinted in the neighborhood that Col. McCann 
was a skeptic, but he had never met anyone to 
whom the Colonel had expressed his views. 
Outwardly he was a professing Presbyterian of 
the old school. Previous to this conversation he 
had looked upon free-thinkers as “queer;’' 
heaven as a certainty. Now as he walked along 
the silent road he seemed to have suddenly lost 
the key to the golden streets, the universe loomed 
vaster and colder than ever before. Above him 
the superb comet swept in its conquering way; 
illuminating all the heavens but adding to their 
mystery. How strange he reasoned that scientists 
can calculate just when this comet will return, 
yet cannot tell what it is, or the universe of 
which it is a part. 

‘ ‘ I wonder can they calculate it ; do they know 
as much as Col. McCann thinks they do; the 


only way to find out is for me to live seventy- 
five years, until Halley’s comet is due to re- 
appear. If it doesn’t, I will say that faith alone 
is real; if it does, it must share its place with 
mystery — our two companions through exist- 
ence. It is something to live for, and to use the 
Colonel’s words ‘barring accidents’ I will see 
that comet in 1910; and I will surely think of 
this night. ’ ’ 

Before he retired he pushed open the wooden 
shutters of his room, to take another look at 
the wonderful constellation, shedding its radi- 
ance upon the cone of the Petersburg, and which 
was to be his star of hope through life. That 
was the last night that the comet was seen in the 
early evening, and the dwellers in the Seven 
Mountains did not feel sufficient interest to lose 
their sleep to sit up to watch its reappearances. 
Whenever Job met the aged Germans on the road 
they were always saying, “get ready for war,’’ 
or “prepare to fight cholera.” They were satis- 
fied with their primitive beliefs. 

Several times he saw Col. McCann driving in 
his elegant carriages; the old getleman was a 
lover of fine horses, his pet scheme being to in- 


troduce the Morgan breed into the Seven Moun- 
tains, as he believed they were particularly 
adapted for the uneven, hilly roads. The Colonel 
always bowed pleasantly to the young man; 
though conscious of his position he would have 
been totally ignorant of the word “snob,” an 
appelation which characterizes most of the ‘ ‘ dol- 
lar aristocracy” of to-day. The boy felt a debt 
of gratitude to him that he never could repay; 
he had given him an ideal to live for, a concrete 
reason to hold a tight grip on life for the next 
seventy-five years. 

A little more than a year after the appearance 
of the comet. Col. McCann died, aged sixty-three 
years. It transpired that he had been in failing 
health for several years, that he was a doomed 
man. Job reasoned from this the cause of his 
melancholy outlook on life ; his uncertainty about 
the future state when prematurely brought so 
close to it. The young man attended the funeral 
which was held at the stately brick church of the 
Calvinists at Jacobsburg. The edifice was packed 
to the doors, and the clergyman preached for 
two hours eulogizistic of the dead man’s beau- 
tiful faith. Evidently he had not revealed to his 


190 


VJ- N 710\jr< - M 


family the doubts which lurked “in his heart 
of hearts, ’ ’ which everyone else knew, had 
passed away ostensibly redeemed. He was laid 
to rest in the nearby graveyard on the hill, 
among the Irish junipers and arbor vitaes. It 
was expected that an imposing monument would 
be soon erected over the remains of one who had 
represented the district for twelve years in the 
State Senate, and been ever a public-spirited 
citizen and a power for good. Five years passed, 
and not even a marker was put up. Wild roses 
formed a frowzled covering to the mound. Then 
the Colonel’s widow died at her son’s home in 
Philadelphia and her remains were brought to 
Jacobsburg for interment. A monument was 
erected to her ; undoubtedly she deserved it, but 
the worthy Colonel’s name was cut on it in 
smaller letters and below hers. In five years he 
had been totally forgotten. No wonder that with 
his keen perceptions he looked into the future 
years as a black, blank waste, insofar as the per- 
petuation of his own personality was concerned. 
But his name and spirit lived on in the heart of 
the young farmer boy whom he had encouraged 
and befriended. 


On several occasions lie visited the graveyard 
and pulled up the weeds which now threatened 
to choke and obliterate his last resting place. 
The young man married early in life, and 
brought a numerous progeny into the world. He 
succeeded his father on the old family farm, and 
while he got along well, he never became wealthy, 
nor desired to be. He had a firm grip on life, 
upon his soul; “barring accidents” he would 
see the great comet reappear in seventy-five 
years. In the spring of 1883 he was already past 
middle life, and his friends and relatives had 
begun to call him “Uncle Job.” He was erect, 
worked as hard as any of the boys on the farm 
and in the lumber woods, but his silvery hair and 
chin beard made his new appelation seem suit- 
able. 

One evening after supper he heard one of his 
sons read aloud from the county paper that a 
great comet was due to appear above the Seven 
Mountains within the next few weeks, that some 
of the older people had believed comets to be 
portents of war, famine or pestilence. The article 
concluded by stating that astronomers believed 
that at regular intervals the same comets re- 


turned to localities. Uncle Job was deeply in- 
terested by the article and spoke about the comet 
he had seen in 1835, forty-eight years before. 

“Col. McCann, who used to be a prominent 
man in this part of the country, told me that it 
would return in exactly seventy-five years. ’ ’ One 
of Uncle Job^s grandsons who was present — ^he 
was a pert lad and had attended high school for a 
term in Jacobsburg — spoke up. 

“I guess this is the comet you saw, all right, 
only it’s coming back in forty-eight instead of 
seventy-five years. Those old-timers thought they 
knew it all, but their notions are getting ex- 
ploded. ’ ’ 

The old man was crestfallen ; perhaps his hope 
for all these years was coming to pass within a 
few weeks, his firm belief in Col. McCann sus- 
tained a moment of eclipse. He said nothing 
more, but about ten days later, when the Luth- 
eran preacher came in for supper, he brought up 
the subject at the table. Uncle Job had married 
a Lutheran, and while he himself had joined the 
Calvinists early in life, he had not attended ser- 
vices in many years. 


‘ ‘ I don’t take any stock in what scientists say, ’ ’ 
said the preacher positively. ‘‘I never believed 
that man is descended from a monkey, and I 
refuse to believe that any astronomer can figure 
out the exact date for the return of a celestial 
body. It is all buncombe. My opinion is that 
the comet we will see very shortly is the same one 
you looked at forty-eight years ago.” 

This delivered before the assembled family 
knocked the props from under the old man’s be- 
liefs. He felt very downcast that night, but the 
next morning fresh faith came to him. He would 
not discredit Col. McCann’s words until he had 
seen this new comet j he could remember exactly 
what the other one looked like. A picture of it 
in every detail had burned itself into his soul. 
The new comet came, the family, and the preach- 
er, who happened to be spending the night at the 
house, witnessed the phenomenon from the front 
yard. 

‘‘That’s not the comet I saw in 1835,” said 
Uncle Job, clapping his hands. 

“How do you know, gran ’pap,” chirped the 
pert grandson, “you’re pretty apt to forget what 
it looked like after all these years.” It was now 


the preacher ’s chance to follow up this ad- 
vantage. 

“This is probably the same comet that was 
here forty-eight years ago ; there is no man living 
who could remember exactly what he saw at 
such a distance so long ago. ’ ^ 

As the reverend gentleman was on the eve of 
his thirty-third birthday, his experience with 
long vistas of memory was limited. Uncle Job 
was too wise to enter into an argument with the 
assembled party, so he said no more. But he 
went to bed happy ; the comet now in the heavens, 
though vivid and imposing, was not the one he 
had seen in 1835. The next evening his wife, 
who had felt badly at seeing the old gentleman 
“sat on^^ the night previously, took particular 
pleasure in reading aloud an article from the 
county paper. “It said that the comet now to be 
seen had not been in this hemisphere in over a 
hundred years. In 1835 Halley’s comet had ap- 
peared over the Seven Mountains j its return was 
predicted for 1910. ” 

“What did I tell you all,” said the old man 
gleefully ; ^ ‘ Halley ’s comet is yet to appear. ” 


“I wouldn’t believe everything those country 
newspapers say,” remarked the pert grandson. 

Uncle Job was satisfied; furthermore “barring 
accidents” he was going to see Halley’s comet 
when it reappeared. Years passed, most of the 
old man’s friends passed away; he became the 
patriarch of his community. He had the mis- 
fortune to bury his wife five years before the 
expected re-visit of the comet. The old couple 
had often talked about the coming event, and 
how they would see the comet together ; it cast a 
deep shadow over his anticipations. On New 
Year’s Eve he sat up with his descendants to 
welcome in 1910, the year of the comet’s ex- 
pected appearance. He was in fine spirits, and 
talked with almost the enthusiasm of youth about 
the days of 1835, of the changes that had oc- 
curred beween then and 1910. 

“I wish Preacher Fishback was alive; he in- 
sisted that the comet we saw in 1883 was Hal- 
ley’s; I guess he died thinking that way.” 

During the spring months the county papers 
and the Philadelphia papers took up the subject 
of the expected comet. They described. minutely 
the looks of -the comet in 1835 ; it verified Uncle 


Job’s recollections exactly. Whenever he could 
obtain a listener, he would tell about having 
seen the great comet seventy-five years before; 
some foolishly kept away from him, like the un- 
enlightened shun old soldiers’ war stories. He 
was probably the only person in the county who 
had been reasonably mature when it appeared 
before; his views on the subject ought to have 
been reported in the county newspapers. Dur- 
ing seventy years the habits of the country people 
had changed; they were willing to sit up to see 
the comet on the first night of its appearance, 
and not as in the old days wait until it came 
into view early in the evening. Surrounded by 
his family, the old man waited for the great 
sight. Even the grandson, who had scoffed 
twenty-seven years before, had been “con- 
verted, ’ ’ and wanted to be present to witness the 
genial patriarch ’s triumph. It was a wonderfully 
clear night; the heavens were illuminated by 
myriads of stars, their light was sufficient to cast 
a silvery aureole over the cone of the Petersburg 
mountain. Early in the evening the whippoor- 
wills sang shrilly; the peepers chorused in the 
low grounds about Shaver’s Run, crickets were 


fiddling everywhere. The air was sweet and 
calm; there was a rich odor of pine and damp 
leaves. 

When the hour approached the party went 
out in the yard, the old man leading the way, 
walking steadily, but carrying his favorite gold- 
headed cane. His family noticed that he did 
not step off the high rickety porch steps as lightly 
as of yore. The sight which met their eyes was 
beyond expectations; the superb luminous ball, 
with its spangled trail of light, bisected the 
heavens with its majestic presence. It dimmed 
the stars ; it made the summit of the Petersburg 
glisten like a peak in some land of eternal snows. 
Uncle Job stamped his cane on the ground, and 
laughed like a boy. 

What did I tell you all ! I said that ‘barring 
accidents’ I’d be here to see the comet again, and 
prove that it wasn’t the one which visited us in 
1883 .” 

The entire family congratulated him upon his 
good fortune, wishing him many more days of 
health and happiness 


198 THE : : ->EN MOUNTAINS 


‘ ‘ I have only one regret, ’ ^ he said quietly, ‘ ‘ and 
that is that mother (meaning his late wife), 
isn’t here to see this with me.” 

When all had seen the comet to their hearts’ 
content, the family party went indoors; most of 
them scurried away to bed as they had worked 
hard all day and were sleepy after this unusual 
dissipation. Uncle Job and his tv/o eldest sons 
sat in the kitchen for a few minutes discussing 
the wonderful visitation. When one of them made 
the sign to go upstairs the old man remarked 
that he thought he would go out on the porch to 
get another look at the comet before retiring. 

“This is like Col. McCann’s voice from the 
tomb; he certainly predicted everything just as 
it has happened,” he said. 

As he went to the door one of the sons made a 
move to follow him. 

“Better not go with him, Josiah,” said the 
other, ‘ ‘ he wants to look at the comet by himself, 
to think about mother, and the old days.” 

The door slammed, they heard the aged man ’s 
cane striking on the porch door; they resumed 
their smoking about the empty stove. Fifteen 
minutes passed, why did the old man remain out- 


side so long ; the air as chilly, he had better be in 
bed. The men went out on the porch, expecting 
to find their father sitting on his homemade rock- 
er, which an ancient German had given him on 
his eighty-fifth birthday. He was nowhere to be 
found. They ran to the far edge of the piazza, 
where they heard a groan. Looking down they 
saw the old man lying in the flower-bed; in the 
darkness, caused by the thick growth of vines, he 
had stumbled off the porch, was evidently ser- 
iously injured. They picked him up and carried 
him tenderly to the kitchen where they laid him 
on a lounge. His lips moved, and he said dis- 
tinctly, ‘'Well, I Ve seen the comet after seventy- 
five years. Coi. McCann said I would, ‘barring 
accidents. ^ ^ ^ Then he lapsed into an unconscious 
state and died soon after the doctor arrived. 


X. 


SWARTZELL PANTHER. 

(A Story of Hay vice Valley.) 

T was Saturday afternoon in 
Siglerville, and residents in 
the country surrounding this 
I quaint little mountain com- 

munity had driven in accord- 
ing to custom to execute their 
week^s shopping. Nearly a 
score of teams were tied to 
the long, badly chewed rails in front of the gen- 
eral store. Other wagons and buggies, and a 
couple of saddle horses were fastened to trees or 
posts on the opposite side of the road. The mud 
was ‘‘hub deep” as it was in the early spring, 
indicating that it must have taken some of the 
heavy farm wagons many hours to drag their 
way from the distant farmsteads to the little 
trading village. The boardwalks were thronged 
with happy faced mountaineers, for the day was 
sunshiny and balmy, who seemed to utilize the 
afternoon in town as a social rendezvous. Some 
200 


of the old men Avith their long curly beards, 
coonskin caps, and high boots presented a most 
picturesque appearance. 

There was one turnout, a dilapidated carryall 
drawn by two long-haired plough horses, which 
had stopped in the middle of the street, that es- 
pecially attracted my attention. A great rangy, 
wolfish looking dog stood under the high box; 
his tongue hung out, his tail was between his 
legs, he was mud spattered, evidently had 
traveled from some distant point in the moun- 
tains. An old man and woman sat in the carryall, 
they were conversing with a tall mountaineer 
standing near, who was bearded, booted, 
capped like the rest. He carried a shot-gun, and 
Avas so tall that his eyes seemed to be on a level 
AAuth those of the persons in the wagon. The old 
man in the carryall Avas well worth glancing at a 
second time; lean and eagle-nosed, his wide- 
brimmed soft hat and flowing grey side Avhiskers 
gave him a decidedly clerical expression; his 
companion, a woman past middle age, was pleas- 
ant faced, spectacled and neatly dressed in 
black, in the style of about 1893. I asked my 
companion who these interesting persons might 


be. He replied that the couple in the carriage 
were Jimmy Shattuck and his wife. 

“Jim used to be a Methodist preacher,” he 
stated, “until he married a daughter of old 
John Swartzell, the famous panther hunter of 
Hay vice Valley; the man they are talking to is 
old Cal. Wagner from Germany Valley, who has 
killed his share of big game in his day.” Then 
he pointed to the wagon-box on which the elderly 
couple were seated. “Look, do you see they are 
sitting on a panther hide now; it Was the last 
one that old man Swartzell killed. No greater 
hunter than he ever lived in the Seven Moun- 
tains, not even Dan Treaster,” 

I had been so interested in the physiognomies 
that I had almost missed seeing the panther 
relic, so now I gazed at it carefully. It seemed 
to be an enormously long one, as it stretched 
over both ends of the seat, but it was badly 
faded and the hair was worn off in several places 
from hard usage in all kinds of weather. I 
looked at the hide, rooted to the spot, for it 
brought back a flood of memories, which always 
thrill me when I see a souvenir of pioneer days. 
My companion, knowing my interest, said he 


would tell me the story of SwartzelPs last 
panther. 

“The old man killed this one fully ten years 
after the animals had ceased to be common in 
the Seven Mountains; as near as I can recollect 
it was about 1882. They hung On much longer 
than that; there may be one or two wandering 
through these regions yet. They come all the 
way from West Virginia now when the ‘coast is 
clear’ — they are great travelers, but they ceased 
breeding here over thirty years ago. Johnny 
Swartzell was an antic sort of chap; life in a 
lonely forested valley did not make him solemn, 
he laughed at everything, and seemed to regard 
existence as a huge joke. When his buckwheat 
was a failure he said he could do just as well 
trapping; when hunting got poor, he said he’d 
live by farming. He was a famous pigeon trap- 
per. I have always heard it said that his were 
the best constructed bough-houses in the Seven 
Mountains. He used to salt a hundred or two 
barrels of pigeons every spring ; these he sold in 
the lumber camps so that the ‘lumber- jacks’ 
hereabouts feasted on fat squabs all winter. 
When they stopped nesting in these mountains 


he barrelled the choicest young birds which he 
caught in the fall; they surely made excellent 
eating. Lumbermen make better wages now, 
but they don’t live as well as in the ‘good old 
days,’ when they got a dollar a day and grub. 

“Johnny had traveled about a great deal in his 
youth, although he was born in the Seven Moun- 
tains. He had spent considerable time among 
the Indians in the ‘ northern tier, ’ and had many 
of their mannerisms and expressions. He liked 
to tell the story about one young buck who drank 
too much alcohol and digging up his tomahawk 
attacked a peacable home on the Genessee one 
midnight, killing half the household before they 
got awake. 

“ ‘Youcannevertrustan Indian,’ heoftensaid, 
‘not even Indian Joe.’ This made old Joe, w'ho 
was the only Indian in these parts, real angry, 
when it was carried to him. He hadn’t any sense 
of humor at all. He said he felt that he had 
lived among the white folks long enough to have 
lost all of his native cussedness, that he was a 
white man in everything save in his color. 

“Hay vice Valley was the last region in the 
Seven Mountains inhabited by the Indians; it 



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was likewise the last habitation of the panthers. 
Even now it retains a wild atmosphere, there is 
a tract of original white pine in the south end, 
which was secluded enough to have afforded a 
nesting place for a colony of great blue herons. 
When the milliners had the protection taken off 
these useful, snake-eating birds in 1909, it has 
since been restored, a party of ‘bark-savages^ 
from the north end of the valley made a carnival 
one Sunday afternoon destroying them with 
shot-guns and clubs. 

“But to return to Johnny Swartzell, he was very 
fond of telling Indian stories; they were so ex- 
citing that they would have been good enough 
to collect into book form. He always liked to 
plague his daughter Maggie, who you see in the 
carryall, by telling her that some night she 
would find a wild Indian under her bed. The old 
homestead was a one-story structure, conse- 
quently all the bedrooms were on the ground 
floor. Maggie was never scared by the joke, even 
when she was a wee bit of a girl. She always 
laughed and said she would run and get her 
father and have him shoot the savage. 


“ ‘You’d act very differently,’ he said, ‘if you 
really saw one. You would be so scared .you’d 
drop in your tracks. ’ 

“ ‘Wait and see,’ she would answer, and then 
the whole family would indulge in a good spell 
of laughter. There were few girls in the moun- 
tains as fearless as she; at sundown she would 
go after the cattle, tracing them by the tinkle 
of the cow-bell. Sometimes they would be hidden 
deep among the original timber, at others they 
would be near the crests of the lonely hills where 
wolves were known to congregate. It was no 
rare thing to have a calf killed by wild animals, 
but Maggie and her faithful dog, it was the 
grandmother of that animal standing under the 
carryall, never had an adventure. Wild animals 
know what they can attack and who they can ’t ! 

‘ ‘ Scarcely a night passed when she started for 
her room, which was on the far side of the 
kitchen but that the old man would caution her 
about the ‘wild Indian.’ Subjects of conversa- 
tion were few in the secluded valley ; repetitions, 
if they were at all humorous, were tolerated. On 
very rare occasions pedlers or traveling preach- 
ers penetrated into Hayvice, where they were 


sure to find a genial welcome in the Swartzell 
home. No matter how bedraggled or dirty, they 
were put between the clean sheets in the spare 
room. Maggie would laugh to herself after 
showing some of these individuals to their rooms ; 
they looked a great deal more outlandish than 
the wildest Indian. The only real redman she 
ever saw was Indian Joe ; when he was sober he 
was always scrupulously attired. 

‘‘Maggie was fond of fresh air, and in winter 
and summer slept with her windows open, the 
wooden shutters ajar. She kept them fastened 
together by stout cords, to prevent them from 
banging in windstorms, but a would-be intruder 
could have cut them and come in easily. The 
Swartzell family felt safer in the wilderness with 
windows open and unlocked doors than persons 
in cities where there is a multiplicity of holts, 
chains, gratings and police protection. 

‘ ‘ One evening in September a Russian Jew ped- 
dler named Benny Kaplan, he afterwards became 
the leading storekeeper inJacobsburg and built 
the Kaplan House, arrived at the Swartzell home. 
He was in a state of great perturbation, his 
stiff red hair was literally on end, his fingers 


trembled so violently that he could scarcely un- 
loose the buckles of his pack. He said he had 
been followed for five miles by an animal that 
looked like a big grey cat; it kept a hundred 
yards behind, ran when he ran, stopped when he 
stopped and walked at exactly his gate when he 
walked. He had been for a night at the 
Swartzells’ the week previously; he had not in- 
tended coming so soon again, he said, but the 
afternoon was waning, and he dreaded the seven- 
mile walk across the mountains to Abundance — 
followed by the big grey cat. City people, es- 
pecially foreigners, were gifted with eyes that 
magnified, that was old Johnny’s private opin- 
ion; but nevertheless he soothed the pedler’s 
fears. It was terrible to have been followed by a 
panther, he must remain all night, and forget 
about it in a comfortable sleep. Before retiring 
the old pioneer gave the Russian a good jorum 
of Troxelville whiskey, so that he heard no more 
from him until breakfast time. Benny rested 
well, and after a plentiful breakfast of buck- 
wheat cakes and wild honey, his genial host ac- 
companied him as far as the top of the mountain. 


When he got back, in time for dinner, he jested 
about the pedler ’s adventure. 

“ ‘I don’t believe he was followed by any 
painter. It might have been a rabbit, a fox, or at 
most a bob cat ; I haven ’t seen painter tracks in 
Hayvice since the twenty-seventh of February, 
1872. ’ The matter was dismissed as a joke, noth- 
ing more was thought about it. ‘If it had been 
a wild Indian I wouldn’t have been more sur- 
prised, ’ was his final remark on the subject. 

‘ ‘ There were some very cold nights after Kap- 
lan ’s visit. On one of them a light skiff of snow 
fell. ‘ If this keeps up I ’ll have all my trapping 
done by Christmas ; there are a couple of wolves 
and a big lynx that live too near here to suit my 
taste, ’ said the old man, as he pitched the chunks 
of beechwood into the big stove. Before going 
to their cold rooms for the night the family al- 
ways roasted some chestnuts on the top of the 
stove. The old man, his wife, the youngest boy, 
Oscar, and the daughter, Maggie, were home at 
the time. 

“The night of the thirtieth of September was 
remembered as being particularly frigid. There 
was no moon, but the stars glistened like frozen 


crystals above the tops of the tall pines. Oscar 
had walked to Siglerville that day to buy some 
groceries, taking the dogs with him. He usually 
remained for supper at the Bald Faced Stag 
hotel; it was his only dissipation, so that he 
could see the mail stage arrive from Milroy, 
getting back home before midnight. He knew 
the ‘short cuts^ across the mountains; he could 
walk the distance that way quicker than it could 
be driven. 

“Maggie retired about nine thirty, her 
father giving her his usual thrust about the wild 
Indian. The girl took her tallow dip, and made 
a dash for the cold room. She looked under the 
bed as usual, but of course saw nothing. The 
shutters were ajar as usual; it seemed so bit- 
terly cold that she thought she would close them 
tightly. As she drew near she saw what seemed 
to be two golden stars shining through the nar- 
row opening. They couldn’t be stars, for on 
second glance she saw the evening star above, a 
frosty quicksilver color. The thought flashed 
through her mind that the yellow stars were the 
eyes of an intruder, possibly the wild Indian. 
Quick as a flash she seized the candle from the 


chair where she had left it, and leaving the door 
ajar, darted into the kitchen. The old pioneer 
was in his stocking feet, sitting by the stove. 

‘ ‘ ‘ Father, father, ’ she whispered, ‘ you are right 
at last; the wild Indian has come ; he isnT under 
my bed but he ’s looking in at the window. ’ The 
old man had called ‘wolf’ so often that he ap- 
peared incredulous. He made no move to get 
up or reach for his rifle, which hung beside the 
corner cupboard. 

‘ ‘ ‘ Get your gun quick, or else I will, ’ said the 
girl. Her voice indicated she was in earnest, 
that this was no time for joking. Her tones 
rekindled the old love of the chase and he arose, 
grabbing the rifle which Maggie handed to him. 
No panther ever sprang more quickly than he 
in covering the distance from the kitchen to the 
bedroom. With his trained eyes he recognized 
the interloper outside the window — if it was an 
Indian he was bent on manslaughter, so he fired. 
Outside came a howl of pain, it sounded human, 
yet so horrible that it was like the cry of a fiend. 
The ‘golden stars’ no longer appeared. Striking 
the cord which bound the shutters with the butt 
of the rifle, the pioneer broke it. The shutters 


flew back, and he leaped through the opening. 
Outside was a pile of shingles, on which he 
stumbled, and rolled over the gun to the grass. 
He was quickly on his feet, he fired again, the 
aim was true, as the horrible cry of pain seemed 
to echo among the cold, lofty stars. 

‘ ‘ Old mother Swartzell and Maggie were out in 
the yard by this time, too surprised to even guess 
what was going on in the pasture lot. All be- 
came silent, except for the tremulous tinkling 
of the cow and sheep bells, huddled away in one 
corner of the field. Pretty soon the gaunt figure 
of Johnny Swartzell appeared in sight beyond 
the yard fence. He was waving his rifle, his 
long beard was blowing in the frosty breezes. 

“ H got him, hooray, I got him good,’ he 
shouted in triumph. 

“ ‘Who is he, for heaven’s sake? I hope you 
haven’t killed an Indian,’ called out Maggie, 
half seriously, half in fun. 

“ ‘He was a wild Indian, but not the kind you 
mean; he’s an old socker of a painter. I’ll bet 
he’s nine feet long.’ 

“Mother Swartzell recovered her presence of 
mind and with Maggie ran to the house, return- 


ing with a smoking lantern. By this time the 
happy pioneer had opened the gate which led to 
the pasture field, where he stood mopping his 
brow with his sleeve. Just as the women ap- 
peared with the light, the ruddy gleam of a 
cigar appeared in the darkness, and then the 
shrill barking of dogs — it was Oscar back from 
Siglerville. 

“ ‘What’s all the commotion yelled the 
young man. 

‘ ‘ ‘ Father ’s just killed a nine-foot panther that 
was trying to get in my window,’ answered 
Maggie. 

“ ‘Get out, you’re foolin,’ said the lad, quick- 
ening his pace. 

“When all had assembled at the gate, the old 
man led the way across the rocky, stumpy, mul- 
lein-grown field, pastured close as only sheep can 
do it. When they reached a clump of scrubby 
red hemlocks, with bark worn smooth by cattle 
rubbing against them, he held his lantern aloft. 
Lying in a limp mass across the exposed roots 
was the sooty-grey colored form of a mammoth 
male panther. It may not have been nine feet 


214 


4-1 IS 


long, but it was at least seven from ‘tip to tip.’ 
The old hunter stooped down, and turned over 
the creature ’s big round head with his hand. The 
first bullet had gone through the muzzle and 
emerged below the ear, it had not caused death. 
The second pierced the breast and entered the 
heart. 

“ ‘That second shot was fired at random,’ he 
said with elation, ‘pretty good firing in the dark, 
eh?’ 

Then the old man and his son skinned the car- 
cass, which was very fat. Evidently the panther 
had found plenty of sickly fawns, diseased 
grouse and droopy wild turkeys along the way 
from Clearfield County. 

“ ‘Say, pop,’ said Oscar before they returned 
to the house, ‘don’t you think that this was the 
big grey cat that followed Benny Kaplan the 
other day?’ 

“ ‘ It might have been, ’ said the old man slyly, 
‘but surely he doesn’t look like a fawn, or a 
grouse, or a turkey; painters don’t eat Russian 
sables. ’ 


“The panther hide became a prominent orna- 
ment to the lounge in the kitchen, and it is re- 
lated that the famous hunter spent his declining 
days on it. In his last illness it was used to 
cover his feet on nights when the room was icy 
cold. After his death and that of his wife, young 
Oscar married, which threatened to leave Maggie 
alone in Hayvice. Then Preacher Shattuck came 
to the rescue and married the girl; the match 
turned out very well; Jimmy Shattuck handles 
the rake as well as he did the scriptures. They 
say that the farm is the garden spot in Hay- 
vice. The devoted husband thinks a lot of the 
panther relic, and you ought to hear him tell 
the part his wife played in securing it. It 
seems as if she did the killing, with old Johnny 
merely looking on.” 

As we were talking, the ex-preacher cracked 
his whip, waving farewell to Cal. Wagner, and 
the hairy team started the old carryall in motion. 
As they ploughed up the hill I could see the ends 
of the panther skin flapping out from each side 
of the driver’s seat. It was truly the spirit of 
Hayvice ! 


A MODERN PETRARCH. 

(A Story of Alexander's Stream.) 

HEN the youthful poet, Edgar 
A. Poe left Poe Valley after 
his unsuccessful quest for an 
inheritance, and his equally 
unsuccessful love atfair with 
the daughter of a leading 
farmer in that valley, he 
started in the direction of 
Lewistown, there to take the stage for Phila- 
delphia. He was suffering the first poignancy 
of his disappointment, his heart was so sad that 
he neither looked to the right nor the left. It 
was useless to do so, as the beautiful world ap- 
peared a blur and a blank. With characteristic 
improvidence he made only a half-hearted effort 
to trace his share in the ownership of the valley 
after he had met the beautiful Helena Walters. 
When after his brief and tempestuous courting, 
he found that she loved another, and his infer- 
ior, he was too anxious to quit the region to con^- 
216 



sider further the possible possession of some of 
its real estate. 

His claim of kinship to Daniel Poh, the 
frontiersman, was a good one, but as ever in his 
life, he sacrificed all to the recklessness of love. 
By what path he left the secluded valley is not 
known, but he first re-appeared in civilization at 
Potter’s Bank, where he rested aimlessly at the 
hotel for several days. He appeared to have 
plenty of money, for he hired a carrier to re- 
turn to Poe Valley to get his knapsack which he 
had left at the Walters’ home. He left the hotel 
unexpectedly one evening, and nothing more can 
be traced of his wanderings until he reached 
Milroy a week later. There he became com- 
municative with the landlord at the Raven 
Hotel, telling him the story of his woes, and how 
he would like to return to Poe Valley to press 
his claim for the property were it not that he 
hated to face the fair being who had refused to 
give up her unworthy lover for him. He learned 
the names of several lawyers in Lewistown, say- 
ing that he would engage one of them to press 
the case. He had the chance to go by stage to 
Lewistown, and several teamsters who liked the 


attractive youth invited him to accompany them. 
But he said that he had something he wanted to 
write, the sentences formed themselves better 
when he walked than when he rode. 

The weather was good ; perhaps it would 
arouse his love for the beautiful, remove the 
haze that was before his eyes since his disap- 
pointment. Everything in the young man’s life 
went by extremes; he enjoyed as keenly as he 
suffered. A period of misery was always fol- 
lowed by one of elevation; in his darkest hour 
he could look with certainty to a happy to- 
morrow. Without these alternating currents of 
experience he might have desired to die of grief. 
He left the Raven Hotel — by the way, a strange 
prophetic name — one fine morning, strolling 
along the highway in the direction of Reedsville. 
On the road he became acquainted with a Ger- 
man drover, who told him about the wonderful 
cave with the petrified infant in it on the old 
Naginey farm. The poet expressed a wish to 
see the interior, which was seconded by the 
drover, who said he hadn’t been in the cavern 
in seven years. He found an accommodating boy 


who agreed to watch the stock for a shilling, so 
he entered the cave with young Poe. 

The entrance, which had never been large, 
was completely choked by leaves; after these 
had been removed the explorers had to lie on 
their backs and slide into the aperture like ser- 
pents. The interior thrilled the impressionable 
poet, who was not above scraping on the bush- 
hammered walls, — “Edgar A. Poe, 1838” with 
the aid of his case-knife. After leaving the 
quaint labyrinth they visited Winegardner 's 
Cove, which they found filled with ice in 
August. Then the men parted, the drover 
moving in the direction of Yeagertown, the 
poet departing in search of Alexander's Stream. 
The hotel proprietor at Milroy had told him of 
this wonderful fountain which gushed out of 
the rocks below the old manse; its volume of 
water was scarcely less than that of the famous 
fountain of Vaucluse in Provence. It was at 
Vaucluse that the unhappy poet Francesco 
Petrarch wtrote so many hf his impassioned 
verses to Laura Sade, who as the wife of another, 
was beyond his reach. It was there a couple of 
centuries later that the greatest of modern Ital- 


ian poets, Victor Alfieri ’ ’mingled his tears with 
the fountain” and composed a dozen sonnets to 
the Countess of Albany, also the wife of another. 

When Edgar Poe came in sight of Alexander’s 
Stream his heart leaped with sublime rapture. 
In all his travels he had never seen a spot so 
marvelously beautiful. Out of a dark chasm in 
the limestone rocks swept a great jet of crystal 
Water, so immense that it formed the torrent or 
river called after the Alexanders, which empties 
into Honey Creek about a quarter of a mile be- 
low. Above the hundred-foot cliff from beneath 
which the cataract burst forth stood a noble 
grove of primeval walnut, hickory and white 
oak trees; many of which are standing today. 
Further to the north, on the extreme crest of the 
hill, commanding a superb view of the Seven 
Mountains, was the ancient manse of the Alex- 
ander family. The Alexanders were among the 
earliest Scotch-Irish pioneers in Central Penn- 
sylvania; they were noted as owners of vast es- 
tates, and occupied a high position, socially 
and politically. Their blood flows in the veins 
of many of the famous leaders in art, literature 
and finance, all over the United States. 


Below the fountain the shores of the stream 
were lined with ancient elms and willows. Be- 
yond the banks were several wooded knolls, cov- 
ered with hickory and cedar trees. It was a 
classic spot, a fit abode for the gods. It was 
to one of these knolls that the young poet hied 
himself that bright morning. He seated himself 
on an old log at the foot of a giant shellbark. 
This tree was broken down by a storm in 1911. 
From where he sat he could watch the fierce 
torrent of water belching forth from the fissure 
in the high cliff, the foaming stream which 
flowed from it running towards the tranquil, 
dreamy Honey Creek. He could admire the 
many varieties of primeval trees, and watch the 
kingfishers and the big woodpeckers or “rosen- 
spechts” darting about. He could faintly hear 
the cawing of ravens in the tops of the tall oaks 
on the apex of the cliff which overhung the 
fountain. It was an ideal spot to compose, to 
feel divine melodies, a sequestered nook where 
one would have to admit that nature like woman 
was, despite her inconsistencies, very beautiful. 

The young man took from his knapsack his 
note book, ink bottle and quill, and began to 


write: the first dozen lines had been running in 
his head for the past twenty-four hours. Trans- 
ferred to paper surcharged with the atmosphere 
of the wondrous fountain, they seemed the most 
beautiful that had ever fiowed from his facile 
pen. He took off his broad-brimmed hat, leaned 
his head of curly, light-brown hair — ^Venetian 
blonde some called it — against the trunk of 
the tree. He closed his eyes for a minute, 
while fresh images adjusted themselves in the 
portals of his consciousness. He made a 
pretty picture, with his slender, intellectual face, 
with features so refined and delicate, the gentle 
breeze playing with his golden curls. 

While meditating with eyes closed, he was un- 
aware that a lovely-looking, dark-haired, dark- 
eyed girl, erect and slender, carrying a small 
tin pail, passed along the footpath within five 
feet of him on her way to the mansion. She was 
lost to view among the giant trees when he 
opened his eyes. Perhaps the passing of the 
beautiful unseen spirit was the cause, at any 
rate his exquisite piece called “To lolanthe*^ 
was instantly completed to the final syllable. 
With his copperplate hand he transcribed it 


in his copy-book, rather pleased with the effort. 
It told of a sad, unrequited romance; it de- 
scribed a fair but false goddess, with ash-blonde 
hair and drooping eyes. The unseen inspira- 
tion had cast a golden shadow through his closed 
lids; the face and form of ‘‘lolanthe’^ was hers 
in every particular, except the coloring. By 
intentionally refraining from describing Helena 
Walters, he had unintentionally portrayed 
someone else. Poets are always clairvoyant. 

Consequently when fifteen minutes later he 
saw a slim, youthful figure coming towards him, 
he felt sure that he had seen her before. He 
did not possess the power to describe women he 
had never met, but where had the rare vision 
crossed his path before? He had tried to dis- 
guise Helena’s personality in the poem, to his 
surprise he had been able to see mentally an en- 
tirely different person. He felt such a sense 
of old acquaintanceship for the girl coming 
towards him, and his heart was so frightfully 
lonely, that he clambered to his feet, and bowed 
to her. She spoke to him the same moment ; the 
recognition seemed mutual. The young girl’s 
blood had been tingling ever since she had seen 


the young poet resting against the tree with his 
eyes closed. She had never seen such a handsome 
man before ; his cast of countenance was entirely 
different from anybody, except her ideal. Though 
country raised, and used to hard work, she 
possessed a refined soul, within her was the 
spring of spiritual progress. People gifted thus 
can attain any position in life; they are the 
real elect of the Calvinistic doctrine ; those born 
without it must always flounder in the sphere in 
which they are born. He spoke about the beauties 
of the fountain, saying that he had come many 
miles expressly to see it. He had never seen 
anything so wonderful in nature before, not 
even the Natural Bridge in Virginia. His home 
was in Baltimore, but he had been doing literary 
work recently in Philadelphia. The girl opened 
her black eyes wide; this was the kind of man 
she had dreamed about, but never expected to 
meet. 

The poet asked her to sit down for a minute, 
perhaps she would care to read a poem which 
he had just finished. She seated herself grace- 
fully on the log, and he handed her his copy- 
book. He leaned against an ancient white oak 


which stood nearby, watching her intently as 
she read. She was about eighteen years of age, 
rather tall, with the slim lines of a nymph. Her 
face was pale, the arched nose turning up just a 
trifle at the end. The upper lip was short, hut the 
lips themselves were colorless and pitifully thin. 
They were the mouthpiece of a starved soul. 
The line of the chin and throat was particularly 
graceful. Her old black dress adjusted itself to 
her graceful form. As she continued to read 
her smile grew less, a shadow fell across her 
expressive face. When she laid it in her lap, she 
did not utter a single word of approval. 

The young poet, hungry for kindness or praise, 
endured the silence for a moment. He spoke to 
her gently, asking what she thought of the poem. 
For some reason he valued her opinion more than 
that of anyone in the world whom he had met. 
She looked up at him, their eyes meeting in 
sympathetic confidence. 

‘ ^ I don T like it at all, ’ ^ she said. 

‘'Why not?’^ asked the poet, piqued by her 
blunt criticism, yet secretly divining the reason. 

“You know very well,’' she replied; but then, 
reflecting a second, she added, ‘ ‘ but I am foolish 


to care ; you are a stranger to me ; you may be a 
married man for aught I know/’ 

As Poe fancied himself still hound to eternity 
to Helena Walters, it would he violating the 
proprieties of romance to quickly admit a fond- 
ness for another. He longed to tell her that he 
regretted the poem, that it meant nothing any 
more, but in the coldness of his intellectual pride, 
held his tongue. The girl, having made all the 
advances she wished, and finding them not re- 
ciprocated, that the poet stood by his guns so to 
speak, turned the conversation into impersonal 
channels. The young writer came over to where 
she sat, and seated himself beside her. He felt a 
strangely sympathetic atmosphere in her, in her 
he seemed to have found one who could under- 
stand, He began telling her about his troubles, 
which seemed to be uppermost in his mind. He 
could talk more freely with her than with the 
stolid Pennsylvania German landlords at Pot- 
ter’s Bank and Milroy. His nature required 
confidences, sympathy, love. He was feminine in 
the intimacy of his nature. He told her his 
name; recited about his trip from Philadelphia, 
of his high hopes at becoming a landowner in 


the Seven Mountains, how it had all been upset 
by his falling in love with Helena Walters. 

At the mention of this name the young girFs 
pale face grew paler; the year before she had 
been loved by Abram Halit, the fiance of Helena ; 
she had been deserted by him for this fair 
blonde girl from Berks County. It was a strange 
complication ; the poet meeting and loving 
Helena, who refused to give up her lover for 
him, his coming to the fountain and meeting 
and being admired by the rejected sweetheart of 
Helena’s lover. The poet laid especial empha- 
sis on his failure to understand why Helena 
should prefer a coarse fellow like Abram to 
himself ; the girl could not understand this either 
as she had known the young man in question. 
As the conversation progressed, and the girl’s 
sympathy was so pronounced, and her person- 
ality so attractive, he felt his artistic pose slip- 
ping away and the force of his affection for his 
new friend engulfing him. His desire to leave 
it a chance acquaintance vanished, he asked the 
girl her name, saying that he had been deeply 
benefitted by the meeting. She said that her 
name was Anne Savidge, her father was the 


overseer for the Alexander estate, that she lived 
in the little white cottage a short distance below 
the mighty fountain. 

Her frankness added to her other charms quite 
won the young poet^s heart. He longed to tell 
her that he loved her, but feared to do so as the 
change might seem to sudden after his attitude 
earlier in the interview. Looking into his heart 
he understood now that he loved her from the 
first moment he laid eyes on her ; it was the sud- 
denness of the change of heart as much as his 
pose as the unhappy lover of the girl in Poe Val- 
ley, that had caused him to miss his opportunity. 
If he told her that since they began talking he 
had changed, she would regard him as inconsist- 
ent, she could never respect him properly. All 
these thoughts flashed through his mind as he 
gazed at his sympathetic companion and talked 
in as commonplace a vein as was possible for one 
of his vast mental attainments. Used to inferior 
women, he underestimated the bigness of Anne 
Sividge ’s nature. Had he told her his true feel- 
ings she woud have forgiven the past in an over- 
powering and lasting love. He saw the tender 
look in her eyes but feared to destroy it by an 


apparent confession of fickleness. He would go 
his way, with one more complex experience add 
ed to his vivid career. 

The afternoon proved even balmier than the 
morning; the bright sun rays revealed yellow 
leaves among the green on the giant trees. A 
flock of black ducks alighted on the stream, were 
toyed about by the current. Grey squirrels lost 
their shyness, and dug out last season’s nuts 
from knot-holes in the old shellbark, cracking 
the brittle shells with their tiny invincible teeth. 
The poet had been so confidential, he had con- 
fessed to loving and losing that Anne allowed 
the conversation to veer about to the story of her 
own brief life. It had been entirely free from 
love affairs until two years before, she said. 
Then Abram Halit had come to break colts for 
the Alexanders. At first she had disliked him, 
he was so vain and boastful and selfish. But 
other girls admired him; she had heard it said 
that he could have any girl he wanted in the 
Seven Mountains. He had begun to show her 
little attentions, which greatly flattered her, as 
there were several other girls in the neighbor- 
hood to whom he had previously exhibited a pre- 


ference. At Christmas time he had returned to 
his home in Poe Valley for a few days. 

While there he met Helena Walters who had 
moved there with her parents that autumn from 
Berks County. She was a German girl, but had 
captivated young Halit completely. He told her 
about meeting this fair charmer when he re- 
turned. He said she was pretty but that he 
cared little for her. All went well until one 
night he dropped a letter from his pocket. It 
fell back of a chair, she said nothing. After he 
had gone she recovered and read it. It was from 
Helena Walters addressed to Halit. In it she 
mentioned having received a letter from him the 
day before; it was couched in passionate lan- 
guage, the girl was clearly madly in love with 
him. The next night she mentioned Helena Wal- 
ters to the unstable lover; he said he had not 
heard from her since his return. She produced 
the letter ; he was unable to fence, he broke down 
and confessed that he loved her better than 
Anne. They parted then and there, she had 
never seen him again. He did not stay much 
longer on the Alexander estate ; he was back in 
Poe Valley, if the poet had met him there. She 


hated the thought of him, she wished she had 
never seen him. She was not surprised to hear 
that he was engaged to Helena. She strongly- 
believed that he would treat her as he had other 
girls. A girl was silly to pin her faith to such 
a man. She thought Helena was foolish to have 
kept on with him, when she was loved by a 
stranger of manifestly finer character. Since 
she had been disappointed in Abram Halit she 
had never felt any interest in another man, at 
least up to that morning. She did not think 
that she ever really loved the fellow, she was in- 
fatuated with him, that was all. She was happy 
that she had found him out when she did; it 
was a useful experience. She had been very 
contented for the past year, she had never 
thought of him, would not have mentioned his 
name had not her new-found friend fallen afoul 
of him. 

The young poet listened to this long recital 
attentively, never once interrupting her. As it 
advanced he felt his head growing hot, his hands 
becoming cold. He had gotten up and sat down 
again several times, had twitched nervously, but 
Anne had kept straight ahead. When she had 


11^ SEV i 


finished there was a silence, so lengthy that it 
became oppressive. The poet edged closer to 
her, taking one of her hands ; it was colder than 
his own. Looking into her face intently, his soul 
ablaze with jealous fury, he said that he believed 
she still loved Halit. The girl quickly drew her 
hand away, getting up, with tears streaming 
from her eyes. 

“How could you say that?” she gulped. “I 
thought you were so different — — I wish he was 
dead, I wish I was dead ; it was nothing only an 
idiotic infatuation.” 

The poet proved himself to be neither tactful 
nor considerate, further wounding her by saying 
that whenever a woman talked incessantly about 
a man, she still felt an interest in him. 

“I hate him, I hate him,’^’ said the girl, clench- 
ing her fists, and leaning against the shellbark 
defiantly. 

“No, no, you don%” said Poe; “the reason 
I talked about Helena Walters so much was be- 
cause I loved her ; you told me about that cursed 
Halit because you liked to hear the mention of 
his name. ^ ^ 


“Oh, Mr. Poe,” sobbed the girl, “why do you 
treat me this way ; why do I stand here and per- 
mit myself to be abused by a stranger.” 

“I don’t know why you do,” said the poetj 
who, despite his bravado, was the unhappier of 
the two. 

“I know why I do,^^ she cried, “it is because 
I love you j you knew I did from the minute our 
eyes met. I loved you when I saw you sitting 
with your eyes shut, composing that poem, be- 
fore you even saw me. ’ ’ 

“I feel that you love me,” Poe answered, 
“but not as I want to be loved. I crave and I 
require a woman heart-whole. No one who has 
the image of another man lurking somewhere in 
the inner recesses of her soul can fill my want. 
If I had met you before you knew that low-bred 
Halit, all would have been well. It is too late 
now. ’ ’ 

The girl was over her weeping, and was 
smoothing her dishevelled dark hair. She looked 
the poet full in the eyes, and then replied, “If 
you have such a want, why did you love Helena 
Walters after she told you of her betrothal to 


Halit?” 


“It was because I did not believe that she 
really loved him; I suspected the sincerity of 
her affection in a hundred ways. With you I 
am sure of it.’’ 

Anne made nO effort to argue further. She 
held out her grimy cold hand, the poet took it) 
placing it to his lips and kissing it. 

“I’m afraid that big as I am, my mother will 
trounce me for being away so long, ’ ’ said the girl ; 
“she always is scolding me for spending so much 
time at the manse. I’ll have to tell her I was 
there all this time, instead of barely a hundred 
yards from home.” 

“Come down to the pool and bathe your eyes 
before you return, else your mother will think 
that you have been crying about Abram Halit,” 
said the poet with cruel emphasis. 

‘ ‘ I will wash my eyes. Or do anything to please 
you,” said the girl, “but if she asks me what I 
Was crying about, I will say it was about you, a 
stranger. ’ ’ 

They climbed down the soft bank, where the 
poet bathed her eyes with a clean white hand- 
kerchief. The Water, fresh from the pure heart 
of Mother Earth, freshened her appearance; no 


one could have guessed a recent tragic episode. 
The poet, with his arm around her waist, helped 
her up the bank, back to the shade of the ancient 
shellbark, where their hands clasped in a fare- 
well. 

“WonT you give me one kiss?” said the girl^ 
“I love you, even though you doubt me; I will 
always feel the same.” 

Poe caught her in his arms, and kissed her long 
and tenderly, each Was loathe to break away. 
Finally the girl recovered herself, and with a 
smiling face turned on her heel and scampered 
down the path towards the little white cottage. 
When she was gone it was the poet's turn for 
tears. Seating himself on the moss-grown log 
beneath the aged shellbark, he gave way to a 
lifetime's pent-up emotion. 

“I do not understand myself/' he murmured. 
‘‘I expect everything, but can give so little my- 
self. I can never be happy. ’ ' 

Like Petrarch at the Fountain of Vauclause, 
he must wish for the unattainable. Then he 
smoothed back his light brown curls, put on his 
hat, and started towards the highroad. At the 
gateway he paused long enough to take out his 


copy-book. He ripped out the leaf containing 
the poem “To lolanthe,” which he had finished 
that morning, tearing it in four pieces. These 
he tossed into the air. The next morning when 
Anne after a sharp scolding from her mother 
and a sleepless night started for the manse 
with her tiny bucket of cream, she found 
one of the fragments; it was the One from the 
lower right hand corner. On it she deciphered 
never to forget, . . . losing tkee^^ . . . **yet 
will love thee always/^ Clasping it in her hand, 
against her heart, she hurried on her way, so ex- 
cited that she could not attempt to search for the 
other pieces. All her life and her hopes were 
contained in those few words. To the end of her 
days she wore them in a silver locket ; they were 
buried with her when she died, a respected 
spinster of sixty years. 



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XII. 


THE THREAD. 

(A Story of the Wild Pigeons). 

HERE were signs of an early 
autumn in New Lancaster. 
By the second week in Sep- 
tember the maples and tupelos 
on the ridge which formed the 
northern wall of the valley 
were tinged with scarlet. 
Quite a few yellow leaves had 
been blown from the sturdy chestnut trees which 
lined the pastures; several hoar frosts had de- 
veloped the nuts. The nights were very cold, so 
much so that the foxes barked from sheer dis- 
comfort. The dogs, shivering in their kennels, 
were glad to have an excuse to howl in answer. 
The days were wonderfully clear, with not a 
trace of clouds, the blue dome being the color of 
southern azure. There was no humidity; the 
darkness of the pines and hemlocks “the black 
tops, ^ ’ as the woodsmen called them, were clearly 
differentiated from their fainter tinted fellows. 



237 


The rich juicy green leaves of the corn stalks 
had shrivelled, revealing the darkening ears; 
the giant red and green pumpkins which grew on 
shrunken stems at their feet . The wild morning 
glories had gone to sleep for good. In the early 
mornings one could see the breath of the sheep 
and the cattle. Weather like this always aroused 
the latent energies of old Adam Johnsonbauch ; 
he seemed like a different man when the first 
bright tints were noticeable on the upland ma- 
ples. 

“These are the days that send the pigeons 
south,” he would say gleefully. “I have kept 
track of their habits every fall for over fifty 
years; I know them like a book. They haven’t 
been through here, except a scattering bird or 
two since 1881; it’s over thirty years ago, but 
that’s nothing. I mind very well my grandfath- 
er, the old revolutionary veteran, telling me that 
on Powell’s Creek in Dauphin County they 
skipped coming from 1803 to 1833. When they 
did come, he declared that they had to feed 
them to the hogs, and when the hogs got tired of 
them, they used them to fertilize the gardens. 
They say that the sweet peas were colored like 


the male birds’ breasts the next season. Every- 
man and hoy killed all he could; what was the 
use of letting them fly south, others killed them 
there, and they might cause a pestilence if they 
increased too quickly. I am sure they are in 
Canada now breeding like flies far away from 
molestation. Some day a party of Indians will 
locate them, and once scared up they will start 
south. When they come, they will stretch from 
mountain to mountain, covering this valley like 
a canopy, darkening the sun. I have a feeling 
that they will come back this fall. It’s all fool- 
ishness to say they are extinct. When I read 
talk of that kind in the Pittsburg papers I throw 
them in the stove. People can’t wait, that’s all. 
I know they didn’t fly over Powell’s Creek be- 
tween 1803 and 1833 ; it will be the same in New 
Lancaster, we ’ll get our pigeons back — more than 
we want. 

“I can recall the day well when the women 
folks would get down on their knees and pray 
for the abatement of the pigeon nuisance; they 
complained that it kept everybody from working, 
even the little children got sore gums from biting 
off too many squabs’ heads. You couldn’t get 


a soul in this valley to eat a wild pigeon at one 
time; it was too common an article of food. We 
shipped what we could to Jacobshurg or Lewis- 
town, what we couldn’t ship we dumped in the 
gardens and turned them under. The women 
vowed the only good thing the pigeons ever did 
was to give the richer color to the sweet peas. 
But they couldn’t discourage us; we kept on 
trapping, and I am sure we got our share. 

“Old Zenas Kline trapped four thousand in 
one day; he had his whole family out biting off 
the heads ; when they were done the pile of dead 
birds was as high as his corncrib. You should 
have seen his hogs that fall; they were the fat- 
test in the valley, everybody envied them. I’m 
going to get all I can, even if they make me work 
day and night, if they come back this fall. When 
the last big flight came through here I was busy 
with my buckwheat; I don’t believe I got more 
than a couple of thousand all told. I recall I 
got a dozen fine stool pigeons that fall, young 
cock birds, with breasts as red as winter sunsets. 
I kept them four years ; they did very well. Al- 
though there were no flights, I declared I ’d feed 


ir. sj^vK ^ lOTT 


them until another flight came; hut man can’t 
control his own wishes. 

“Just about this time of the year preacher 
Swope came with his wife to spend the day. We 
were busy raising potatoes so we left it to the 
women to entertain them. The preacher put his 
horse in the barn, where he got kicked by my 
stud colt. He left his dog running loose; the 
mongrel got in my pigeon coop and tore to pieces 
all my stool-pigeons. As I didn’t want him to 
complain on my colt, which all my women 
were scared of, I didn’t dare say anything 
about his dog destroying my valuable pigeons. 
I knew that when the birds came back I would 
have to be provided with stool-pigeons, so I 
looked about carefully the next Spring. Early 
in April I noticed a flock of six yearling birds 
roosting on the big Buckeye tree back of the or- 
chard. I set a spring trap for them, but I only 
got one. Luckily this one was a cock-bird, and 
a beauty. The others were very shy, and when 
I caught my bird, they were so scared that they 
flew away, never to return. I watched for them 
below their roost with my shotgun every evening, 
declaring that if I could not get them alive, I 


would have them dead. But I did not get them 
either way. That was in the spring of 1887 ; 
just twenty-five years ago. I^m very careful of 
that pigeon ; I keep him in a nice roomy coop on 
the back porch, and I shoot every cat that sets 
foot in the yard. I have tried to get other pigeons 
since then, but they were smart enough to keep 
out of reach. 

‘ ‘ I well recollect that in the late seventies when 
I worked in a lumber camp in Clarion County the 
pigeons were nesting at the headwaters of Little 
Tionesta. That was the greatest carnival of 
pigeon slaughter I ever witnessed or even heard 
of. The mountaineers moved into the vicinity 
of the nesting grounds, bringing with them their 
horses and cattle, prepared to remain all sum- 
mer. Hundreds of Indians swarmed to the spot, 
drinking and carousing when not gathering 
squabs. The redskins would fell the giant hem- 
locks containing the nests. When a cheer went 
up we always knew that they had found a quan- 
tity of fat squabs. When there was silence we 
realized that it had been a slim find. An old 
man from Tionesta set up a drinking booth in a 
quiet corner in the woods. He sold hard cider 


for five cents a tinful, and did a rushing business. 
When the pigeons started south in September I 
don’t believe that they brought a single young 
bird with them. A hundred acres of magnificent 
timberland was destroyed by the hunters, the 
trees being left to rot on the ground. I believe 
two hundred thousand pigeons were killed that 
season. It demoralized the whole upper end of 
the county, as no one could be found to stick to 
his work in the lumber camps while there were 
pigeons to be killed. I believe the pigeons were 
very useful birds. They ate the beetles and 
grubs which destroy the pie and hemlock trees. 
Since they are gone I have seen whole sides of 
mountains in the northern counties brown with 
dead hemlock trees, killed by the beetles. It was 
this way : when the squabs were first hatched the 
old birds fed them with a pap, which we called 
‘pigeon’s milk.’ When they grew older the 
mother birds would go into the big timber and 
catch a hemlock beetle or pine grub. This they 
would force down the squabs’ throats, and it was 
sufficient to nourish them until they were able 
to fly. As the grub was absorbed, the squabs 
became thinner, until Anally they were forced by 


sheer hunger to take to their wings and fly from 
the nests. The nests were made from a very few 
sticks, resting lightly on the hemlock boughs. 
They were marvels of equilibrium, for despite 
their flatness, the eggs or squabs rarely rolled 
from them in the fiercest windstorms. Though 
the pigeonssometimes ate off a whole field of buck- 
wheat, they did so much good in destroying insect 
life in the big timber that they deserved the little 
buckwheat they got. But I ^m sure they will come 
back; their absence is merely another incident 
like happened on PowelBs Creek in the ‘old 
days.’ ” 

In this way the old trapper would ramble on, 
by the hour, when he could find a listener. 
Though he had served in the Civil War he would 
rather talk pigeons than Appomattox. In every 
man’s life there is one incident that overwhelms 
all the rest, with some it is participation in a war, 
a great disaster, a love affair. With old Adam 
Johnsonbaugh pigeons were the mastering 
thought, all else seemed inconsequential beside 
memories of flights which darkened the sun, of 
butcheries which ran up into the hundreds of 
thousands. Each Spring he would bring forth 


and mend his best net, and repair the poles of his 
bough house, which still stood in the old-time 
buckwheat field. He would bring his pigeon 
basket made of thin hickory sticks, from the attic, 
which had been used to carry the stool-pigeons 
and flyers. He was on the alert for all rumors 
of the pigeons ’ return ; his faith was unswerving. 
Strangers often told him that if a flight did occur 
the state game protectors would forbid any 
wholesale trapping. At these statements the old 
man would laugh until tears came in his eyes. 

"‘Wait ’till they see a real flight, with a hun- 
dred million pigeons in the air — they won’t be- 
grudge us mountaineers a few hundred thou- 
sand.” 

But spring would quickly melt into summer, 
and then in due season autumn would show its 
unmistakable portents on the ridges. Old Adam 
was always ready for the fall flights. 

“They have the young birds with them then; 
three times as many go south in the fall as fly 
north in the spring.” 

To the younger residents in New Lancaster the 
pigeon question was a thing of the past. The 
birds were extinct ; the liberal rewards offered by 


Prof. C. F. Hodge, of Worcester, Massachusetts, 
and others, had found no claimants. The whole 
subject was tiresome to them. A few children, 
brighter than the average, who had heard their 
grandparents talk “wild pigeons used to come 
on Sunday afternoons in summer to look at ‘ ‘ Un- 
cle” Johnsonhaugh’s stool-pigeon. The old man 
would cheerfully explain that when the great 
flights began he would sew the bird^s eyes shut 
and fasten it by a cord to a low perch. When 
the flocks were overhead he would hide behind his 
bough-house and pull the cord, making the cap- 
tive flap its wings as if alighting. It would have 
been better to also have “flyers” on long strings 
to attract the attention of the hungry myriads, 
but he would do his best with the one bird. 
When several hundred alighted on the “bait” 
of buckwheat, he would spring the trap, and the 
net would descend over them. Then he would 
kill the victims by pinching their heads or biting 
their necks, piling their bodies back of the 
bough-house, and begin the operation over again. 

The stool-pigeon was a magnificent looking 
specimen. Though it was twenty-five years old or 
more, its plumage was as bright, its reddish eyes 


as clear, as if it was a “yearling/’ As it sat 
on its perch, scrutinizing inquisitive visitors, it 
was a picture of alertness and beauty. It was a 
large bird, measuring fully eighteen inches from 
bill to tail ; its breast shone with all the vividness 
of a December sunset. Fully a dozen cats, and 
twice as many rats and weasels had measured 
their lengths in the back yard riddled by the old 
man’s shotgun, after unsuccessful forays to the 
pigeon coop. 

“I don’t believe there are half a dozen stool- 
pigeons in the state,” the old man would say 
proudly. “I am sure I have the only one in the 
Seven Mountians. When next the flight begins I 
will be able to make the first grand haul; I 
ought to get a thousand at the least calculation, 
the first day.” 

The children awed by such big figures, would 
take another look at the patient bird, and then 
edge away to their play. 

One bright Sunday aftern<w)n in mid- 
September; it was the year when there were 
such bountiful signs of early autumn; the 
old man, finding the time from dinner hour 
to supper time passing slowly, went for 


a walk to the top of the ridge back of his house. 
There was a good stand of thrifty white oaks 
and chestnuts that he intended “putting into 
ties’’ that winter; he wanted to look them over 
again, to get a general estimate as to the num- 
bers. As he counted and figured he climbed 
higher and higher along the steep path. Almost 
before knowing it, he had reached the top of the 
ridge. A few hundred yards north of where the 
mountain dipped towards New Lancaster was a 
large open space; Andy Breon had taken ties 
from there the winter before. It afforded a mag- 
nificent view of the mountains in all directions. 
One could see clear to Milliken’s High Top, to 
the Broad Face, to the Tussey Knob, to Round 
Top. Meanwhile the old trapper’s wife and 
daughters became tired of sitting on the front 
porch looking at the unchanging view across the 
road; it consisted mainly of underbrush, with a 
good sized maple or two; all view of the ridge 
that formed the southern barrier to the valley 
was hidden by the foliage. 

The women concluded that they would stroll 
up the road and visit the widow Glatfelter; she 
was ill, and a granddaughter had come to nurse 


her, bringing a huge house-cat; her little log 
cabin stood just half a mile west of the comfort- 
able Johnsonbaugh farmstead. They took Nick, 
the faithful shepherd dog, with them, leaving the 
house unguarded, the precious stool-pigeon with- 
out a protector. The old man on the mountain 
top had become very much interested in some- 
thing which appeared far to the north. When 
he first saw it, it resembled a thin thread of 
smoke, as if someone was burning new ground 
on the northern slopes of Penn^s Valley. While 
it apparently rose from the distant valleys, it 
deflected at a certain height, and seemed to be 
sweeping in a southerly direction. It hardly 
looked like smoke; if it wasn’t so copious it 
might possibly be a huge flock of blackbirds. 
He climbed on a big chestnut stump, he strained 
his eyes to catch the meaning of the phenomenon. 
It wasn’t smoke, it was birds of some kind, too 
big for blackbirds, not dark enough for crows. 
He gave a great shout of joy; the pigeons were 
coming! Already the vanguard was twenty 
miles away, but he felt sure that he could reach 
home, bring out the net and the stool-pigeon, and 
trap a few hundreds before sundown. Taking a 


final look to reassure himself, and with blood 
tingling in his veins, he started towards the val- 
ley. Cool as was the afternoon he was in a 
heavy perspiration before he was half way down. 
I^he sun was travelling rapidly westward; the 
Valley was in shadow; the summits still were 
bathed in pale gold light. There was a chilliness 
to the atmosphere as he tramped over the soggy 
pasture-field back of his barn. He stooped to 
pick a wild lily of the valley; it was sered by 
the summer’s sun, yet sadly beautiful. He had 
Uot plucked a wild fiower since his young man- 
hood when he courted ; the pigeons were 
coming hack, bringing with them early senti- 
ments. He climbed the barnyard fence, 
hurried acfoss the reeking area, pushed open 
the garden gate, almost racing along the 
path, and was soon in the back yard. He 
moved rapidly Up the board-walk, was up the 
three loose steps of the kitchen porch in one 
bound; he stood breathless beside the pigeon 
coop. To his surprise one of the slats was bro- 
ken; there was a strange stillness in the pen. 
He peered through the grating of laths ; the bird 
lay motionless on the gravel floor. Many loose 


light colored feathers were strewn about. He 
saw a deep red patch on the back; the bird had 
been bleeding — why, it was dead. Pushing back 
the button, he opened the door, and drew out the 
dead bird. The loose neck dropped over his 
hand, the ruby colored feet had become a yellow- 
pink. The old man clutched the flabby bunch 
of feathers and sank down on the kitchen steps. 
His leonine head hung on his breast, tears trick- 
led from his weatherbeaten lids. He was in this 
abject position when his wife and daughters 
chatting gaily came around the corner of the 
house. “Why father, what ails youT^ said the 
old woman, thoroughly alarmed. “Are you 
sick; what has happened?” chorused the girls. 
Nick the dog began to snarl piteously. For a 
minute the old man seemed unable to recover his 
self-possession; he gazed around him blankly. 
Then he clambered to his feet, holding out the 
dead pigeon for inspection. 

“What has happened,” he said meekly, “all 
my hopes of years are knocked to pieces; while 
we were away someone ’s cat got into the coop and 
killed my stool-pigeon. I thought I had killed 
all the cats in the valley.” 


252 


IN THE SEVEN MOUNTAINS 


‘ ‘ What of that father, ’ ’ said one of the daugh- 
ters, ‘‘there will never be another flight while 
any of us live.’’ 

“That’s why I feel so badly,” said the trap- 
per, ‘ ‘ the flight is on its way here now. I sighted 
them not over an hour ago from the top of the 
ridge. I wanted to he the flrst to capture a wa- 
gon load. ’ ’ 

“Nonsense,” said the girl, “you couldn’t have 
seen any pigeons. The papers all say they are 
as extinct as the dodo-bird.” 

Old Johnsonbaugh turned towards the north- 
ern mountain, pointing with his trembling knot- 
ted finger, ‘ ‘ See, do you observe that thread away 
off there to the north; it’s the pigeons, the pig- 
eons.” The women looked the way indicated. 
They saw a dark blue trail rising high into the 
heavens, pouring south. 

“It’s Only blackbirds,” snapped the oldest 
girl, as she flounced into the kitchen, slamming 
the screen door after her. 


XIII. 


ON THE LEDGE. 

(A Story of Jack’s Mountain). 

HEN Faires Boyer moved to 
Unionville, Ohio, in the spring 
of 1896, he took with him an 
interesting collection of wild 
animal hides. The great 
hunter of the Seven Mountains 
wished to possess some tangi- 
ble souvenirs of his early ex- 
ploits while he spent his declining days with his 
son in the middle west. Chief of these mementoes 
was the skin of a huge panther which he killed 
after a desperate hand-to-hand conflict on the 
very topmost ledge of Jack’s Mountain where it 
frowns down on the picturesque old town of 
New Berlin. The hide, one of the darkest col- 
ored ever procured in the Snyder County wilds 
was a sooty brown in hue, and measured from 
nose to tail seven feet, nine inches. It would be 
interesting even at this late date to prepare a 
list of the ‘‘record” heads and hides of the 

253 



Seven Mountains. While not the largest, Faires 
Boyer’s panther comes very close to holding the 
honors for that species. 

Benjamin Frownfelter, a retired school mas- 
ter who resided at Centreville about 1880, wrote 
a very painstaking treatise on the fauna of Sny- 
der County, expecting it to be embodied in a 
history of the county published within the next 
ybar or two. For some reason, perhaps the 
wealth of technical language, the volumes ap- 
peared minus Prof. Frownfelter ’s article, al- 
though interesting chapters on the flora were in- 
cluded in the history. In the professor’s treatise 
was a list of panthers killed in Snyder County, 
and territory included in it before its separation 
from Union County, together with their measure- 
ments and individual characteristics. He made 
special reference to Faires Boyer’s panther, 
stating that it was the darkest colored specimen 
ever secured in that region. He compared the 
coloring of panthers killed in the Adirondacks 
and in the northern counties of Pennsylvania, 
with those taken in the Seven Mountains and in 
several of the Southern states, including Florida, 
showing that the tendency was to become darker 


as they were found further south. He considered 
the Boyer panther practically identical in color 
with a specimen secured in Manatee County 
in the everglades of Florida, the same year, 
1873. Unfortunately for students of Pennsyl- 
vania mammalia the Frownfelter manuscript 
has been lost, hut those who have seen it 
unite in saying that it was a mine of 
information, condensed into a comparatively 
brief number of pages. While the Dorman pan- 
ther killed in 1868 achieved a state-wide reputa- 
tion, being mentioned in hundreds of newspapers 
at the time, the Boyer panther has barely been 
heard of. Killed amid unusual circumstances, 
it certainly deserved a greater notoriety. Old 
Boyer, before leaving for Ohio, stated that the 
hide he took with him was the eighth that he had 
killed in the Seven Mountains. Prof. Frown- 
felter it is said, gave Boyer's record as 1855, 1; 
1856, 2 ; 1857, 2 ; 1862, 1 ; 1863, 1 ; 1873, 1. This 
shows the former prevalence of these animals 
and their gradual decrease as years went by. 

There were always fewer panthers in the 
northern than in the southern counties. They 
were almost unknown by the first settlers in some 


counties in the ‘ ‘ northern tier. ^ ’ They were never 
plentiful in Potter County, whereas along the Ju- 
niata hunters killed as many as seven or eight in 
a winter as late as the first third of the nineteenth 
century. Samuel Askey, a Centre County hunter, 
killed sixty-four panthers near Snow Shoe be- 
tween 1820 and 1845. Boyer prized the dark 
colored hide, partly because of its unusual shade, 
partly because it was his last kill; but most of 
all on account of the thrilling battle which he 
fought with the monster before killing it. The 
night before he left for his new home he brought 
the giant hide to the Golden Plough Hotel, and 
told the story of the hunt to a crowd of listeners 
who completely jammed the office and porches. 
After the marvellous recital every man present 
filed past the venerable hunter, shaking him by 
the hand, and wishing him a safe journey to 
the west. There are many living along Penn’s 
Creek who heard the narrative that memorable 
evening or previously, so it will be possible to 
transcribe it — of course lacking “Uncle Faires” 
wealth of picturesque details. It seems that in 
the fall of 1873 several sheep were lost by farm- 
ers living along the southern slope of Jack’s 


Mountain. At first it was believed that it was 
the work of hunters or tramps, but the action of 
some of the dogs of the neighborhood gave rise 
to the theory that the thief was a panther. Like 
in most matter of fact communities, the story 
was ridiculed ; Lewis Dorman had killed the last 
panther in the Seven Mountains, there could be 
no more. The papers resented the imputation 
that panthers still lurked in this region, quot- 
ing several alleged hunters to prove to the con- 
trary. 

In December was the mating season of the 
fierce brutes, which made Faires Boyer, the most 
skilled hunter in Centreville, who for the past 
ten years had been spending most of his time 
trapping otters, assert that if there was a pan- 
ther on Jack^s Mountain it would make itself 
heard at that time. That panthers wailed every 
night is incorrect ; they were naturally silent an- 
imals — love alone made them sing their songs 
so weird and terrible which are inseparably 
linked with their story. Accordingly the saga- 
cious hunter moved out to a shack which stood 
at the head of Hemlock Hollow, in one of the 
most inaccessible regions on the mountain. He 


268 


IN THE SEVEN MOUNTAINS 


took along provisions enough to remain two 
weeks. Before leaving he told his friends that 
if there was a panther on the mountain he would 
bring back its hide ; he never found the trial that 
led to disappointment. He took with him one 
very small reddish dog, ^‘just to aid finding the 
scent, he said. Boyer knew that as the pan- 
thers’ love season drew near, they invariably, if 
not provided with mates, travelled along the 
summits of the highest ridges, uttering their love 
songs, but only at night. Like most of the cat 
family, they were nocturnal animals, sleeping 
principally by day. If he took up a good posi- 
tion every night on the mountain top, he could 
hear the panther’s song, even if it was five miles 
away. If a male, the notes would be deep, akin 
to the roaring of a lion ; if a female, it would be 
in a shriller key, almost like a house-cat’s catter- 
waul, but many times louder. Had it not been 
for their wailing, panthers would probably be 
plentiful in the Seven Mountains today. They 
were very shrewd, were seldom caught in traps, 
but they betrayed their presence in a locality by 
their noisy love songs. 


The panther of Jack’s Mountain “gave him- 
self away” the first night of Boyer’s arrival at 
the shack. He had planned to go on watch on 
the comb of the ridge, but it was not necessary to 
stir from his door. Soon after dark the familiar 
notes were heard far up on the topmost pinnacle. 
It was the voice of a male panther. At first it 
sounded like wind soughing through the old 
pines, the next measure was louder, a song of 
strength and power. This was continued with 
variations for over half an hour. At the end 
it died away into a wail of deepest anguish. No 
answering voice had come ; the huge brute must 
lie down among the rhododendrons disappoint- 
ed. Why this lone panther had travelled so far 
east puzzled the hunter. One theory was that 
it had been driven by dogs from its familiar 
haunts in the Beech Creek region, where these 
brutes hung on until the last original timber was 
gone ; another that it was in search for a mate. 

Between Jack’s Mountain and the headwaters 
of the Lehigh, where a few panthers persistently 
lingered, stretched a wide area of inhabited ter- 
ritory, but love knows no limits. A female pan- 
ther strayed into the Blue Mountains in Albany 


Township, Berks County, where it was killed by 
coal-burners in August, 1874. It was a lonely 
straggler from the upper Lehigh region, and was 
probably trying to make its way west in time for 
the love season. As it was the last panther ever 
heard of in Eastern Pennsylvania, this amply 
accounts for its presence in a settled region. 

Boyer remained quietly in his shack all day. 
He slept most of the time, so that he could feel 
fresh for his night’s work. The sunset was a 
magnificent riot of cerise and gold, even the 
matter-of-fact hunter was impressed by its gran- 
deur. At dusk he shut the dog in the shanty, 
and started alone up the hollow. When he reach- 
ed the summit he sat down among the ferns, rest- 
ing his back against a gnarled Jack pine. It 
was comparatively quiet on the mountain ’s wind- 
swept comb. A few half-hearted crickets chirped 
among the weeds, their fiddling weakened as if 
by the high altitude. When it became complete- 
ly dark the love song of the panther began. It 
sounded as if it was about a mile west of where 
the hunter was seated. The night before it had 
been a mile to the east, not far from where the 
mountain drops off abruptly to. New Berlin. The 


hunter waited until the song, which on this oc- 
casion lasted more than an hour, came to an end. 
The final notes were so despairing that they 
made the bold hunter shudder with lonesome- 
ness ; evidently the brute as losing hopes of find- 
ing a mate that season. When all was still 
Boyer moved cautiously along the ridge, in the 
direction from whence the sounds had come. He 
knew that after a panther finished crying, it al- 
ways lay down. His plan was to get as close to 
the approximate resting place of the brute as 
possible; to wait there until daybreak, and sur- 
prise and shoot it. He traveled fully a mile 
and then dropped down to await the dawn. 
When the crimson coronet appeared from behind 
the palisades along the Susquehanna, he began 
to search about carefully. He had not gotten 
far when he came upon a round open space, 
where the ferns and bushes were flattened; the 
monster’s late resting place. The animal had 
been sleeping within a hundred yards of him, 
but scenting him, had gotten away before day- 
light would disclose it. Boyer now regretted 
having left the dog at the shanty ; it would have 
apprised him of the panther’s nearness. He 


had not brought the dog as he feared its barking 
might give the quarry too much of a start. It 
was hard to tell which course would have been 
the best. At any rate the panther was gone. 
There was nothing to do but to return to the 
shack, and take a good nap until sundown. He 
trusted that the panther’s amorous propensities 
would make it pour forth its love song again; 
passion is generally stronger than the sense of 
self-preservation. He muzzled the little dog 
with cords, taking it with him that evening. 

He took up the same position on the comb, 
waiting for the hunted brute to weep out its hun- 
gry soul to the wilderness. It wasalmost midnight, 
and the hunter was nodding with drowsiness 
when he heard a single sharp cry. It was nearly 
a mile to the east, not far from where he had 
noted it the first time. He waited an hour, he 
heard no more. The panther had intended to be 
still, but had emitted one involutary wail. Evi- 
dently the crafty brute had doubled on its 
tracks, and passed close by him that morning. 
Tucking the dog under his arm, be moved along 
the ridge, this time going less near than former- 
ly to where he imagined the panther was resting. 


He sat among some huge rocks until the grey 
dawn ,and then resumed his tramp east. Just 
as he expected, he found where the panther had 
laid among the ferns. The monster preferred a 
soft bed in the open to a cranny in the rocks. 
Here, Boyer removed the muzzle, and put the 
dog in the nest to catch the scent. The little 
beast scurried around in circles for a minute or 
so, and then started on a trot eastward. This 
time the panther had not doubled its course; it 
had headed towards the end of the mountain, to 
the ledge overhanging New Berlin. The dog 
had not proceeded far before he began exhibit- 
ing signs of terror. At first when he imagined 
he was on the trail of an animal the size of a 
wildcat, he was bravery itself. Now some un- 
seen power had told him that he was trailing 
something of enormous size; he fairly cowered 
in his tracks. The hunter patted the little ani- 
mal ’s sides, urging him forward as best he could. 
At length the dog refused to go any further, so 
he picked him up, tucking him under one of his 
arms, for he was a very tender-hearted man. 
Without the dog^s assistance there was always 
the danger of the panther having ‘‘back- 


tracked’’ perhaps passing within a few feet of 
him, but Boyer’s instinct told him that the ani- 
mal was near the ledge. He primed his rifle, set- 
ting the dog down a minute while he did so. He 
had to smile as he gazed at the little animal 
cringing and shivering between his legs. As he 
neared the end of the mountain there was a 
“bald spot,” where there were great flat rocks, 
grey and covered with lichens; the few stunted 
pitch pines were shattered and barely clinging 
to life. 

The morning sun was shining through the 
misty clouds, he could look about him clearly. 
A hundred feet ahead he saw what at first looked 
like a round rock resting on a flat one. He 
peered at it more carefully; it was the panther 
taking a bath in the early rays of the morning 
sun. Its heavy, round head was lowered, and 
faced towards the east. It was in a difficult 
position to receive a mortal shot. Boyer decided 
to move no closer, but stepped a dozen paces to 
the south, to advance along another line, in order 
to get a shot at the side of the monster’s skull. 
The little dog made no sound; it had shaken 
violently when it saw the brute it had been 


trailing; it was rigid under his arm, literally 
“scared stiff.” Just when the hunter was with- 
in a few feet of where he decided to fire, the 
panther got up, stretching his magnificent dark 
body, and yawning like a huge cat. No time 
was to be lost, so he dropped the dog, and fired 
his rifle. Whether it was a case of “buck fever” 
or not is hard to say; he only ridged the mon- 
ster’s belly. Looking about, the panther sighted 
his foe, stopped short, stretched himself and 
yawned again. Boyer, in all his thirty years’ 
experience in the woods, had never seen such an 
exhibition of sublime insouciance. He fired 
again, this time piercing the animal’s shoulder. 
For just one step it limped, then it walked lei- 
surely out on the ledge and lay down. The slab 
on which it rested jutted out over the valley ; it 
was a perilous position for man or beast. The 
hunter fired a third time, the bullet piercing the 
victim’s neck. The panther’s head dropped, it 
looked like the mortal shot. Laughing with ex- 
ultation, Boyer hurried over the rocks and wind- 
falls in the direction of the ledge, the little dog, 
which seemed to divine there was to be no more 
danger, trotting closely behind. When Boyer 


was within ten feet of the panther he fired again, 
to make sure that the animal was dead before 
dragging it back on one of the fiat rocks and 
skinning it. This bullet seemed to have the ef- 
fect of re-animating the dying brute. It rose to 
its feet like a flash, its eyes blazing fire, its 
sturdy muscles twitching with fury. Turning 
about, it sprang at the hunter, who defty sought 
to guard himsef with his rifle. The weight of 
the two-hundred-pound monster was too much 
for him, and he fell on his back on the rocks. If 
he had pitched forward or sideways, he might 
have fallen over the precipice. Although downed, 
the hunter was by no means worsted; his hand 
Was on his long hunting knife, and he ripped 
open the panther’s bowels as it lay across him 
snarling furiously. With a gasp of pain, as de- 
spairing as the last notes of its nocturnal love 
song, it expired. The little dog, which had been 
hiding among some hog-berry bushes, re-ap- 
peared, and began biting at the carcass. 

Boyer crawled out from his perilous position, 
and dragged the bloody carcass by the tail to 
the biggest and flattest rock. Then he lit his 
corncob pipe and began the operation of skin- 


ning. Every minute or so he would stop and 
stroke the soft dark fur; it was far and above 
the handsomest of any he had killed, or even 
seen. 

“I don^t expect I’ll ever shoot another panther 
in these mountains, ’ ’ he said nonchalantly, as he 
peeled the last corner free from the flesh. ‘ ‘ And 
it is fitting that this one should give me a tussle. 
Come what may. I’ll never part with his hide.” 

He carried his trophy hack to Centreville, 
going to his home on the shore of Penn’s Creek 
by an unfrequented path. The first that the 
neighborhood knew that he had killed the pan- 
ther was when they saw the hide drying on the 
back wall of his barn. The New entinel 

and the Middleburg Post barely made mention 
of the occurrence; it was speedily relegated to 
forgetfulness. Had Boyer told the details at 
the time, a great excitement would have result- 
ed. But he almost lost the title of panther-slay- 
er had it not been for his dramatic recital the 
night before his departure for the west ; the de- 
scription of his exploits in Prof. Prownfelter ’s 
treatise on the Snyder County fauna, as stated 
previously, was never published. Thrilling as 


were many of the experiences of the old time 
hunters of the Seven Mountains, none can equal 
the exciting moment when the wounded panther 
charged at Faires Boyer on the ledge. 



PENNSYLVANIA MOUNTAIN WAGON OF 1840 Photo by Rev. W. W. Sholl 










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XIV. 


THE INDIAN MOUND. 

(A Story of the Chieftain Viperine). 

N the centre of a field of rich 
alluvial soil facing the public 
road which runs from Hartle- 
ton to Middleburg rises a 
large circular hillock. It is 
beautifully proportioned and 
smooth except at the bases 
where it has been scarred by 
searchers after Indian relics and bones. Sev- 
eral corn crops were raised on it successfully; 
the stalks were of unusual height, some of them 
ten feet from tassel to root. As the mound 
seemed to require no fertilizers, the farmers 
concluded that it must have been an Indian 
burial ground. The young men of the neigh- 
borhood bored into its sides, but found nothing. 
This seemed odd as arrow heads were plentiful 
in the surrounding fields and along the banks 
of the creek. A professor from a college in 
eastern Pennsylvania who was making a walking 

269 


trip through the Seven Mountains in search of 
geological and botanical specimens heard of the 
mound, and went out of his way half a dozen 
miles to look at it. He appeared on a Sunday 
afternoon when there were many farmers in 
their “store clothes’^ standing about the roads; 
his inquiry for the mound caused them all to 
follow him to the much debated spot. One 
glance was sufficient to satisfy the learned man. 

‘ ‘ That is no Indian mound, ’ ’ he declared with 
the emphasis of one who is uttering the last 
word on the subject. “It is a hillock caused 
simply by the erosion from that stream; what 
is its name?” 

He was told that it was known locally as Wild- 
cat Run. He unwrapped his geological map, and 
with a great flourish drew on it the position of 
the stream and the mound. Below these marks 
he wrote “hillock caused by ancient erosion from 
creek.” The gaping farmers accepted the state- 
ment as final, the hillock was no longer called the 
Indian Mound. When they went home to sup- 
per they told of the great man who at a glance 
had classified the natural wonder. The very old 


people shook their heads, refused to be con- 
vinced. 

“It is an Indian mound, there’s a story con- 
nected with it,” they all contended. 

But their descendants were unimaginative, 
they hated the legends because there was a pos- 
sibility that they might not be true. That is 
the chief fault with the present day dwellers in 
the Pennsylvania Mountains, especially the 
wealthier classes; they are absolutely lacking in 
imagination. The older people were imagina- 
tive, it was their chief charm. The writer re- 
calls an evening at an exclusive hunting club 
where the subject of the wild pigeons in Penn- 
sylvania was brought up. Each man decisively 
declared “they are extinct.” The gamekeeper 
of the organization began to relate instances of 
where they had been seen by reputable persons. 
The wealthy self-made men, rather gauche, 
would hear nothing of it, they had not seen 
the birds themselves, they had no imaginations 
to grasp that others might possibly have 
done so. They pronounced them “extinct,” 
so the subject was dropped. But it was prob- 
ably the best thing that could happen for 


the mound that the word ‘‘Indian’^ was 
removed from it. It effectually stopped bur- 
rowing into its sides; its symmetry remained 
unmarred. When strangers passing along the 
highway paused to marvel at it, there generally 
was a native handy to counteract their first im- 
pressions. 

“It was caused by the water from that creek 
over yonder,^’ the yokels would acclaim with 
the same gusto as had the professor a score of 
years earlier. They seemed to take a perfect 
delight in ripping the spiritual fabric from the 
one point of interest in the township. As long 
as the very old people lived, the legend of the 
Indian mound was kept in existence, fiowing like 
an underground stream. The unimaginative 
younger generations always frowned down at- 
tempts to tell the story. ‘ ‘ The professor knows, ^ ^ 
was their favorite method to silence the tire- 
some romance. But sometimes groups of the 
old people would get together on Sunday after- 
noon, and refresh their memories; the story 
being synonomous with truth, would not die. 
Even the fact that such luxuriant corn grew 
from the mound, far taller and bigger eared 


than in the rest of the field, had no influence on 
the farmers. Their minds were made up, it was 
not an Indian mound; if good corn grew there 
it was because it grew there. Histories of the 
county and township were written which ignored 
it, educated persons passed along the road, but 
were unmoved by the sight of the mound. The 
say- so of an obscure professor whose name ac- 
tually became lost, shelved the publication of 
the story of the great Indian memento for over 
twenty years. 

One bright blowy April afternoon a stranger 
passed along the highroad. He stopped to gaze 
with admiration at the wonderful mound, then 
looked eagerly about for someone to tell him 
the story. It was perhaps fortunate for him 
that no one was about. A quarter of a mile dis- 
tant at the foot of the long hill, behind a clump 
of bare bleak walnut trees, stood a weather- 
scarred cabin. A trail of very blue smoke 
emerged from the chimney. It seemed to take 
the form of a beckoning Indian. The stranger 
made haste to visit the humble cottage; some- 
thing told him that there the history of the 
mound could be obtained. There was a very 


cross dog in the yard, but it was worth running 
the risk to pass this snarling sentinel. 

In response to a knock, a ponderous old man, 
with a great shock of white hair, keen blue eyes, 
and an aquiline nose, opened the door. On his 
bronzed face was a week’s growth of beard, oth- 
erwise he was very neat and tidy. He was a 
Civil War veteran, as he wore a bronze Grand 
Army button on the lapel of his vest. The 
stranger asked him if he could give some infor- 
mation about the mound in the field nearby. The 
old man looked at him half amused, half quiz- 
zically, saying “a professor from somewhere in 
the eastern part of the state told us that it was 
caused by the water of the little creek which runs 
back of it.” Then he paused, thinking that 
this stranger, like the rest, would be satisfied. 
There was something in the tone of the old man’s 
voice which sounded as if he doubted the pro- 
fessor’s story; it was worth delving deeper. The 
stranger asked if he could come inside for a few 
minutes; that he wanted to ask some more ques- 
tions concerning the mound. The old man asked 
him to enter, with a great show of cordiality. 


Once seated on easy chairs by the comfortable 
wood stove, in the square whitewashed room, which 
was barren of pictures save for a newspaper calen- 
dar, the visitor asked the old veteran, who said his 
name was John Stoner, late of the 149th Penn- 
sylvania Volunteers, if he didn’t believe that 
the mound in question was of Indian origin. 

“You are one of many persons who have 
asked me that question in the past twenty-five 
years,” he said with candor. “I used to like to 
tell folks what it was but after that professor 
was here, the old legend got ‘knocked into a 
cocked hat.’ Now I always tell them it was 
caused by erosion, and they appear to be satis- 
fied. It’s a big word and means a lot.” 
Then he outlined briefly what the profes- 
sor had said, and how eager were all the younger 
residents to accept his statements. 

“It may be all true,” he continued, “but the 
Indian story dies hard, at least with me. An 
Indian named Hilltown Billy told it to my fath- 
er ; he believed it, and I believed it ; though that 
professor ought to know. The story of that 
mound always reminded me of the account of 
the Tower of Babel; it made me think that the 


man who first said that the Indians were the 
lost tribes of Israel wasn’t so far from wrong. 
Many of the Indian traditions remind me of 
what I have read in the Bible ; I always pictured 
the Children of Israel to be dark and handsome 
like our first redmen. The Indians five hundred 
years ago must have been a noble race. They 
had never seen the whites, and their intellects 
were pure Indian intellects. 

“The later chiefs, like Canasatego, Teedyus- 
cung, Shickelemy, James Logan, or Cornplant 
had all absorbed ideas from the Europeans; 
they were neither one thing nor another. There 
were ancient dynasties that possessed as much 
power and culture as the Pharaohs of Egypt. 
The Indians remembered them, as they had no 
written history, by some distinctive name. Thus 
the dynasty of which the great war chief Pipsis- 
seway was the last was known as the ‘Flower 
Dynasty’ because so many of its kings were 
named after popular flowers. There was Pipsis- 
seway; his son who never ruled, was called Lu- 
pine, and the great chief’s grandfather, old 
Viperine. Pipsisseway ’s father was named Iron- 
wood, a tree which bears a pretty red blossom. 


Viperine was not a particularly warlike chief- 
tain. He had inherited vast possessions and 
power, and was more anxious to be remembered 
as an orator or a bard. He was probably little 
of either, but the story tellers of his day feared 
to mention him in any other way, except as the 
greatest speaker and poet who ever lived. When 
Indians are vain they are ‘terrors.^ That 
he wasn’t proficient is proved by the fact that 
not a single word of his orations and songs have 
come down to us. He probably uttered high 
sounding platitudes, the kind that go in one ear 
and come out the other. He was always calling 
his people together to give them ‘speeches from 
the throne,’ or to hear his epics. He conceived 
the idea that he was the most intellectual man 
who had ever lived. In order that there be no 
invidious comparisons, he had the tongues cut 
out of every Indian who was known to have any 
pretensions to oratory or poetry. This was a dis- 
astrous proceeding as much of the poetry and 
history from the past centuries was in the 
mouths of these same men. When they were 
silenced, the golden treasure of antiquity was 
lost. Only a few fragments of the period anter- 


ior to Viperine have come down to us. Less is 
known of the ancient history of the Indians of 
Central Pennsylvania than of those of any other 
part of the continent; the fault of this can all 
be laid on the vainglorious chieftain. But a 
manufactured fame is ephemeral ; probably only 
a dozen people in the Seven Mountains now liv- 
ing have ever heard that such a person existed. 

“Viperine wasn’t his real name ; it was the In- 
dian equivalent of that wonderful mid-summer 
flower; some call it blueweed or viper’s bugloss, 
but viperine is its prettiest name. The ‘animal’ 
and ‘mountain’ dynasties which succeeded were 
but faint reflections of the glories which went 
before. The still earlier ‘rock’ dynasty, about 
which very little is known, was said to be the 
strongest of all. After Viperine had ruled for 
nearly thirty years he decided that he would 
utilize the occasion as a Jubilee. He wanted to 
brand his greatness, so to speak, on the memory 
of everyone in his realm. He imagined that the 
best way to do this would be to erect a monument 
higher than the tallest mountain, one that would 
serve as a ladder to the stars. It would be con- 
structed of rocks and earth, and be surmounted 


by a pavillion, in which the mighty monarch 
could reside in the exclusiveness befitting one 
of his rank and brilliancy ; his sole company the 
sun, moon and stars. No one was good enough 
to associate with him, he wanted to accentuate 
the positions by a difference in residence, 

‘ ‘ According to his lofty ideas, it would take a year 
to climb to the top of the monument; mortals 
desiring converse with him would have time to 
become sufficiently impressed by his grandeur 
while they toiled onward to the starry apex. 
One of the many serious obstacles to the con- 
summation of his fantastic scheme was that it 
first entered his head less than a year before the 
date of the jubilee. There was no time to be 
lost; ail the Indians must appear on the scene, 
and work until death relieved their exertions. 
Verbal invitations were sent out broadcast, tell- 
ing the unsuspecting subjects of the forthcom- 
ing jubilee, and bidding them assemble imme- 
diately at the royal encampment on Wildcat 
Run. No word was mentioned of any work be- 
ing required of the guests, except that they 
bring all their housekeeping utensils for a 
lengthy stay. They were required to leave their 


weapons at home; it was to be an occasion of 
peace and thanksgiving. While they were trav- 
elling toward the vale of the Wildcat, the crafty 
king had his home-guards burn off the forest 
for several miles on every side of the spot se- 
lected for the monument. 

When the horde of Indians arrived they found 
a vast open plain provided for their residence. 
Viperine appeared to them personally when all 
had assembled, delivering one of his oratorical 
flights. He advised them to set to work build- 
ing homes on the plain, that their presence in 
the neighborhod would last for some time. He 
concluded by congratulating them on their won- 
drous opportunity to see and hear the voice of 
the greatest human being that ever lived. His 
grandson, Pipsisseway, was given to just such 
manner of speeches! When all had erected 
shacks and lodge houses, he appeared before the 
multitude a second time, congratulating them 
on being able to live so near a mighty being like 
himself, and requested them to erect a stockade 
around the entire plain, which contained their 
homes. As no reason was assigned for this stu- 
pendous work, there was some grumbling, but all 


soon turned in and the elaborate enclosure was 
constructed. When all were inside, the body- 
guards of Viperine closed and bolted the gates. 
Then representatives of the vainglorious chief- 
tain commanded men, women and children to 
begin work on the royal pyramid, which was to 
be as tall as the stars. A few demurred, but 
they were promptly executed with great bar- 
barity, as a warning to the rest. As there was 
no use of further resistance, the cowed, unarmed 
savages submitted to the gigantic task. They 
were told off in companies of a hundred men 
each, under the leadership of one of the king’s 
personal body-guards. When thus subdivided 
they were marched into the surrounding coun- 
try. There they were put to quarrying blocks 
of stone, digging earth, or building sleds to con- 
vey materials. 

“ Viperine ’s orders were reckless of human life 
— at first. For the slightest insubordination or 
lagging, death was the sole punishment. The 
bodies were thrown into the excavations. Exe- 
cutions were so frequent that the women and 
children, who had been left inside the huge en- 
closure to cook and work for the men, were 


speedily drafted to do manual labor. Food was 
scarce, as there was no one who could go hunt- 
ing. It was a horrible spectacle to watch the 
heavily loaded sledges drawn by emaciated men, 
women and children, bringing rocks and earth 
to the site of the monument. A deep foundation 
of rocks had been constructed, and on this the 
pyramid of earth, with its -skeleton of stone 
work, was to rest. It was a boldly conceived 
plan, but not practicable beyond a hundred 
feet in height. This the builders soon realized. 
The personal suite in charge of operations feared 
to tell the monarch, knowing that it would 
wound his colossal vanity. They knew that a 
time would come when the edifice could go no 
higher; the foundations were not large enough 
to support such height and weight. The work 
progressed slowly, as it was feared that if it 
was done hastily, the whole thing would topple 
over before it had reached a hundred feet. Then 
every being connected with it would be executed 
to the last man, — with only Viperine left to 
execute the official headsman. The personal 
suite trusted that the king would tire of his 
folly, and call a halt before the inevitable catas- 


trophe occurred. If he could cease the opera- 
tions before the structure collapsed it would be 
a great saving to his prestige. But Viperine 
was blind to the architectural defects, and every 
day, with great outbursts of impatience, ordered 
the work to progress faster. He threatened to 
go on a war of conquest to a distant part of the 
continent to capture slaves to help expedite the 
work. Every morning he was carried on a litter 
to the vicinity of the work, where he would sit, 
watching the construction, garrulously giving 
the minutest instructions. If he noticed a work- 
man pause for a moment’s breath he would have 
him removed from the structure and brought 
before him and beheaded. On some days the 
bodies of a hundred victims would be piled in 
front of the royal palanquin. 

“As time went on he became so irritable and 
disgruntled that he could scarcely restrain him- 
self from taking a part in the work himself. 
Were it not that he boasted of the indolent lives 
that his ancestors had led for centuries, he might 
have joined in the throng who carried deerskins 
filled with earth to dump on the top of the slow- 
ly growing mound. On one particularly hot day 


no less than a thousand workmen were prostrat- 
ed by the sun. The savage monarch ordered that 
all these unfortunates should be executed before 
the following sunrise. Just after he had pro- 
mulgated this inhuman order he noticed that 
two workmen had placed a huge block of stone 
an inch out of plumb. He sent orders that they 
straighten it under penalty of being tortured to 
death. The poor, half-starved wretches were so 
frightened at the approach of the king’s mes- 
senger that they seemed unable to rectify their 
mistake. First they would set it in too far, then 
moved it out too far ; the awful punishment hang- 
ing over them benumbed their senses. 

‘ ‘ The king meanwhile watched the proceedings 
with growing wrath. He sent another messenger 
to say that if the work was not made right in- 
stantly it meant death, not only to the two work- 
men, but to the two messengers. The four victims 
worked with a will, but their hands trembled 
so much that they could not set the stone plumb. 
The king, seeing the confusion, could stand it no 
longer. Seizing a sword from one of his guards, 
he leaped from his throne, and started for the 
monument. He swore horrible oaths, declaring 


that he would kill the four stupid brutes and 
finish the work himself. He shouted that every 
person employed that day on the monument must 
die before dark. The sun was frightfully hot, 
and a hundred yard dash at full speed for a 
monarch who had never set his feet to the 
ground was too great an exertion. He covered 
the distance between his palanquin and the foot 
of the monument in record time, in the attempt 
to climb up the vast mound. The workmen and 
body-guards were transfixed where they stood; 
the picture of the indolent monarch running 
sword in hand was the most amazing sight of 
their lives. Wild with the fury that he had been 
repressing for days, the king started to rush up 
the steep incline. He had not gone five steps 
before he was seen to froth at the mouth and 
drop his sword. He spun about like a dervish, 
and fell to the earth, rolling down the incline like 
a log. The workmen dropped their tasks, the 
guards abandoned their posts or prisoners, the 
members of the royal family forgot their dig- 
nity, all hurrying to the side of the fallen ruler. 
When the first person reached his side. Viper- 


ine ’s eyeballs had already rolled up in his head ; 
he was stone dead. 

“The news caused a riot among the workmen. 
They rushed from the monument pell mell ; 
gathering together their scanty belongings and 
families, they charged the gatekeepers and es- 
caped from the stockade into the forest. When 
the sun set that night behind Shreiner Knob, the 
vast enclosure was depopulated, save for the 
royal family and body-guards. There were 
hardly enough present to give the late king a 
stately funeral, such as he would have liked. At 
the suggestion of his twelve-year-old son and heir 
Ironwood, the body was buried in the core of 
the monument, several feet above the level of the 
earth. Below rested the mutilated corpses of 
hundreds of murdered workmen. There were 
not enough workers to dig the tomb elsewhere. 
There the distorted body was laid to rest, and 
earth and boulders thrown over it. After 
five centuries, it rests undisturbed, its secret 
well guarded. The professor from the eastern 
part of the state helped to keep the grave 
inviolate by declaring that the mound was 
naught but the erosion of water in the olden- 


287 


IN SEVEN MOUNTAINS 


time. Even though the body sleeps so well under 
its grassy covering, the soul must be as restless 
as the bounding surf. It must be undergoing 
erosion in its stormy passage to the calm land of 
shades. ^ ’ 


XV. 


LYNX OF INDIANVILLE GAP. 

(A Story of Animal Sagacity.) 

HE calico pony which Lot 
Frankenberger had bought at 
the sale in Millheim, and 
which previously had acted 
so docile was running away. 
He had taken fright at the 
road-machine at the entrance 
to Indianville Gap, and 
there seemed no stopping him. He had been 
trotting along slowly, with his head hanging, and 
the lines lying loosely on his back, when the 
“chug, chug, click” of the machinery sent his 
nose into the air, and olf he went at a gallop. 
Old man Frankenberger had handled all kinds 
of horses for forty years and was not in the least 
disturbed when the animal bolted. The men in 
charge of the machine knew his ability as a horse- 
man, consequently made no move to help him. 
They were sure he would see-saw the pony’s 
mouth until it came down to a dog-trot again. 

288 



It was late in an autumn afternoon when the 
adventure commenced, the days were shortening, 
and heavy, cool shadows had already fallen in 
the Gap. On the summits a little sunlight still 
illuminated the lace-like tips of the hemlocks. 

All along the level road the runaway kept 
quickening his pace. The driver braced his feet 
against the front board of the light carryall, 
sawing the beast ^s mouth to no avail. On sev- 
eral occasions as they veered around curves there 
had been narrow escapes from upsetting, side- 
swiping rocks, or bumping squarely into trees. 
The noise of the wagon rattling over the hard 
road was soft-pedalled by the density of the 
foliage, and what residium that carried was 
drowned by the ‘‘chug, chug, click” of the road 
machine. It seemed only a question of time when 
the inevitable accident would occur; the old 
man’s arms were weakening; it was harder to 
steer to the middle of the road. There was a 
bad turn at a gorge known as “Painter Hollow ;” 
with these indications it augured ill to negotiate 
this letter U which the road made at this point. 
But old man Frankenberger vowed he would 
die game. He would fight the runaway to the 


last moment, and if any dying was done, they 
would die together. There was a piece of 
straight road for an eighth of a mile before 
reaching the “hollow,” and here the runaway 
gained additional momentum. The carryall 
never had more than one wheel on the ground at 
a time; it was the driver’s skill which deferred 
the smash-up. But they were nearing the turn, 
below which was a precipice of one hundred 
feet ; Indian Run trickled along at the bottom of 
the gorge. The animal was bowling along at a 
terrific clip, sending back a mass of foam and 
dust, with the white-faced driver, his grey beard 
blowing out behind him, holding the reins as 
rigid as two rods of iron. In half a minute 
more they would strike the turn, and probably all 
be reduced to an indiscriminate mass of bones, 
teeth, kindling wood and scrap iron. The old 
man held his breath ; he had often wondered how 
it would feel to die ; his query to his soul would 
find its answer, and horribly. 

Suddenly there was a sound like a heavy bag 
of meal dropping from a pulley. Something 
dark landed in the middle of the road. It had 
come from the limb of a white oak which over- 


hung the drive. It was quiet for a moment, then 
swelled out and bristled like an angry cat. Old 
man Frankenberger couldn’t help seeing it; the 
frenzied horse couldn’t help seeing it; to the 
runaway it magnified twofold. Possessed by a 
fresh terror, the maddened animal threw back 
its head, suddenly sinking on its haunches, and 
sliding a full hundred yards before falling over 
in a limp mass, a victim of exhaustion and fear. 
The driver had presence of mind enough, it was 
his fiftieth runaway by actual count, to drop the 
reins and roll over into the wagon box. This 
saved him from shooting over the dashboard, or 
being hurled into the roadway. The animal in 
falling ran a broken shaft through its abdomen 
and was slowly bleeding to death. 

Lot Frankenberger had little compassion for a 
brute which had sought to imperil his life, and 
besides he must identify the object or animal 
which had stopped the runaway at the opportune 
moment. He climbed out of the wagon, and 
peered up the road. The furry, catlike creature 
was still squatting, with big glowing eyes turned 
towards him. From a stationary position he had 
no trouble in recognizing his deliverer. It was 


none other than a monster Canada lynx, com- 
monly called a catamount. The animal, alarmed 
by the noise of the oncoming cavalcade or in the 
pursuit of some sickly bird, had leaped from its 
hiding place in the tree, into the centre of the 
roadway. But best of all, it had dropped there 
just when it could save a human life. 

“Of all things, to be saved by a mountain 
cat,’^ ejaculated the horseman, after he had re- 
covered himself. “Of all things, this does beat 
all.^^ 

The lynx seemed to realize that it had done 
something creditable, for it remained where it 
was in perfect security. 

“You are a good pussy, won’t you let me 
stroke you?” said the old man. The cat 
smoothed down its spotted, greyish fur, and some- 
thing like a purr was emitted form its whiskered 
lips. The old man advanced a few steps as if to 
stroke it, saying all the while, “I’ll reward you 
for this some day. You’ve got more sense than 
most people.” 

The big cat looked at him in a friendly way, 
but did not seem to require stroking as it got 
on its feet, which looked like fluffy balls of grey 


down, and hopped, with ear-tips bobbing, into 
the hazel thicket at the lower side of the road. 
Prankenberger returned to his turnout, finding 
that the horse had expired. 

“He’s as dead as a mackerel, and I’m glad of 
it,” he exclaimed with a grim smile. Just then 
he heard the rumble of wheels, a wagon was ap- 
proaching. “Now is my first chance to do that 
mountain cat a good turn. If I say it saved my 
life, there will be a hundred gunners out in the 
woods by morning to kill it. Ill say the horse 
stumbled.” 

A prop timber truck soon hove in sight around 
the deadly curve. The Leitzell boys were on it, 
and they were amazed to see the dead horse, with 
Lot Prankenberger standing by it. 

“We’ll be glad to give you a lift back to 
Indianville; we can’t leave you here in the 
dark,” said the good natured lads. They rolled 
the dead horse into the ditch, first ripping off 
his harness. They tied the carryall behind their 
truck, and turned their horses’ heads back to 
Indianville. ''An hour later home won’t make 
any matter. We’ve got a better excuse to tell 
the old man when we get back.” 


They were at the Frankenberger farm on the 
far end of the long, log-cabined street of In- 
dianville within an hour as they kept the team 
moving at a trot most of the distance. Once over, 
the old horseman had nothing further to say of 
the runaway ; he laughed about it to his family. 
That night when he went to bed he couldn’t get 
to sleep. It wasn’t from the shock of the recent 
experience. His nerves were of iron. He recol- 
lected that they had rolled the disembowelled 
horse into the ditch. During the night the lynx 
would undoubtedly make a meal off the remains. 
When the first lumber trucks passed by there at 
daybreak the teamsters would notice this. It 
would start the story that here was a wildcat 
or a catamount in the Gap ; a general hunt would 
be organized, traps would be set, the faithful 
lynx would pay the death penalty for his kindly 
effort. 

Lot Frankenberger was sure that the animal 
leaped into the roadway purposely to aid him. 
He had never been a hunter, consequently felt 
a higher estimation for wild creatures than those 
whose only interest is to malign them as an ex- 
cuse for killing. He had heard his old grand- 


mother, who had been born in Germany, tell that 
the souls of murderers went into wolves, 
foxes, wildcats and lynxes; they were given 
a chance to benefit some human being in this 
form ; if they did so, their sins were for- 
given; otherwise they were doomed to inhabit 
the bodies of lower animals, such as weasels, 
polecats and water rats. The surest way to avoid 
sleeping too late was to keep awake all the night. 
This the horseman did, with the result that be- 
fore dawn he was on the road behind his family 
horse, an ancient Morgan, which had been tem- 
porarily discarded during his infatuation for the 
calico broncho, bound for the scene of the last 
night’s adventure. 

He tied the horse to a tree a goodly distance 
from the carcass of the runaway, so as not to 
frighten it, and advanced on foot. He found 
things just as he had expected. The hungry 
lynx had devoured a good part of the dead ani- 
mal’s entrails; blood and fat were every- 
where. He dug a good-sized trench in the soft 
muck below the road, and pushed the carcass into 
it. Then he covered it with heavy stones so that 
nobody would be tempted to pry it out and ex- 


amine it. He rounded the grave neatly with 
earth, placing moss, leaves and twigs over it, 
so that it looked very natural. He cleaned away 
all the debris left by the lynx; he was discharg- 
ing his debt of gratitude. 

Frankenberger was a man sixty years of age, 
but life was sweet to him. He had a wife, four 
daughters, and a beautiful little granddaughter. 
All this he would have had to leave but for the 
sagacity of the lynx. He would never forget the 
animal, come what may. He left the spot feeling 
happy. He passed through the Gap a number of 
times afterwards but saw nothing of the lynx. 
The beast was evidently taking a series of de- 
licious cat naps after its feast on the dead horse. 
When the cold weather set in the horseman came 
to the conclusion that it was about time that the 
mountain cat would be hungry. He noticed that 
one of the old blue hens was droopy, so he 
knocked off her head, and took her into the horse 
stable and picked her. He wanted no feathers 
found in the woods after the repast he had 
promised for his animal benefactor. In the 
evening he drove through the Gap, ostensibly 
going on business to Abundance, He stopped! 


under the outspreading white oak where the lynx 
had been resting the day of the runaway. Tak- 
ing the dead chicken from under the seat he 
trailed it into the woods on the lower side of the 
road. There in a secluded nook where there were 
some young beeches, with the dun colored leaves 
still clinging, he tied the fowl by its feet, a few 
inches olf the ground. When he returned to the 
spot two days later it was gone; the lynx had 
come for its reward. 

Pleased by the experiment he visited the retired 
spot every time he found a sick chicken, or se- 
cured a discarded piece of beef or pork at a 
neighbor’s butchering. Everything disappeared 
promptly. The lynx, which formerly lived off 
berries, herbs, roots, and when lucky enough, sick 
grouse or rabbits, was now being fed “on the 
fat of the land.” It was shrewd enough not to 
show itself, and its presence in the Gap was not 
suspected. 

In the month of February, stimulated 
by the action of the county commissioners 
in awarding a liberal bounty for the scalps of 
certain miscalled “predatory” animals, a party 
of idle, intemperate youths from Jacobsburg set 


up a hunting camp in the Gap. Every night 
they came to Indianville, carousing at the hotel 
and insulting women on the streets. They 
loudly boasted that they were making “easy 
money/ ^ that they would never work while the 
taxpayers supported them so handsomely. They 
seemed to know the tricks of trapping, as they 
captured eight gi^ay foxes the fitst two weeks 
they were in the Gap. 

Lot Frankenberger was a trifle apprehensive 
for the safety of his lynx, but reassured himself 
with the thought that it was an uncommonly sa- 
gacious beast; perhaps it contained the derelict 
spirit of Silas Werninger, the outlaw, who had 
been killed near Robertsburg three years before* 
The bounty trapjpers soon caught two big wild- 
cats Which added to the old horseman’s fears. 
The lads had a drunken orgy after this, wreck- 
ing the hotel barroom in theii* crazy frenzy. They 
were then forbidden to come to town, which 
augured ill for the lynx. If half intoxicated 
all the time they could secure so many helpless 
animals, their prowess would increase if alcohol 
Were difficult to obtain. They were in the habit 
of sending the most reliable of their number to 


the county seat every time they had a half dozen 
scalps, and he returned with whiskey and pro- 
visions. Despite this, they had made nightly 
visits to the hotel at Indianville, until ordered 
from the village. They declared that they were 
the greatest trappers in the Seven Mountains, 
that they tvould not leave an animal alive in the 
entire region. In addition to trapping the pro^ 
scribed animals, they shot birds indiscriminately^ 
wiping Out most of the cheery- voiced Jays which 
wintered in the Gap. They butchered dozens of 
useful owls, and many grouse. They caught rac- 
coons, ’possums, muskrats, weasels and also counD 
less rabbits. They were the sworn foes of every 
living thing-— except themselves. They were 
typical of the professiOiial hunters which mis- 
guided Pennsylvania lawmakers are trying so 
hard to encourage. 

One of the lads, the biggest drinker Of the lot. 
Was a taxidermist of some ability, but he never* 
finished attything, wasting scores of rare skins. 
One sunshiny morning after a heavy snowstorm^ 
old Frankenberger went out on his front porch 
to catch a breath of air and admire the ice 
pendants on the trees. tFp the street he noticed 


a great commotion at the railway station, a 
crowd had collected. There was still wanting 
fifteen minutes for the arrival of the train bound 
for the county seat; it was time to walk to the 
station and perhaps meet some distinguished 
traveler, perhaps a United States Senator. Putting 
on his bearskin cap and wrapping his worsted 
muffler about his neck, he sallied forth into the 
snow. As he neared the platform he observed 
that the throng was centered about a tall young 
man who was holding by the ears the carcass of 
some large animal. He was measuring its length 
with himself; the animal seemed equally long. 
The old horseman’s heart stood still; could it be 
that the tall youth was fetching the carcass of 
the faithful lynx to Jacobsburg to collect the 
bounty on its scalp and sell the pelt. It could 
not be that the shrewd creature had been trapped 
and killed. He was hoping against hope, as he 
drew near, that it would prove to be a huge 
wildcat. He recognized the tall young man as 
the soberest of the roystering crew of trappers 
camping in the Gap. By the time he reached the 
steps leading to the platform he could see that 
the dead animal was none other than the lynx 



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of Indianville Gap. The old man was heart- 
broken; would the rapacious hunters leave any- 
thing alive! He mounted the steps and ap- 
proached the trapper, whom he knew slightly. 

‘‘Where did you get the lynx?” he queried. 

“We caught him in our biggest trap yesterday 
noon,” was the reply. “He put up a terrible 
fight before we could kill him. ’ ’ 

“Where are you taking him to?” continued 
the old man. ‘ ‘ I am bringing him to the county 
seat to collect the bounty and sell the hide, ’ ’ said 
the youth. “ I ’ll get four dollars bounty and the 
hide will fetch at least ten dollars, a pretty good 
day’s work, eh?” 

“I’ll give you twenty dollars as he stands,” 
said Frankenberger with emphasis. The crowd 
was taken aback, the old farmer and horse dealer 
was usually so close, and cared nothing about 
wild animals. 

“It’s a go,” replied the trapper quickly. The 
old man fished out a crisp twenty dollar bill, 
handing it over. The trapper dropped the fifty- 
pound carcass to the station platform where it 
fell with a dull thud. Just then the train pulled 


in, and to the surprise of everyone, Lot Franken- 
berger climbed into the smoker with the lynx. 

“The old man’s gone stark crazy,” said more 
than one person as they watched him start on his 
unusual journey. When the train reached 
Jacobsburg it was noticed that he remained on 
board. He traveled clear to Williamsport that 
day, returning by way of Montandon. At Wil- 
liamsport he left the carcass with a noted taxi- 
dermist, with instructions to spare no expense in 
the mounting. He explained that it should be 
set in a crouching attitude, like he had first 
seen it in life. As he left the laboratory he said 
to the genial naturalist “that lynx saved my 
life. I was sorry when the bounty trappers 
caught him ; but it ’s a long story. ’ ’ 

The next day old Frankenberger engaged old 
Nathan Garis, the only cabinet maker in town to 
do some work at his home. On the front porch 
he had him erect a large walnut case with plate 
glass front and sides. It stood against the wall, 
its base rested on a trestle, boarded over, about 
three feet from the fioor. Garis asked no ques- 
tions, Frankenberger gave no information as to 
the use in which he intended putting the case. 


“Seems to me as if he intended keeping store,’’ 
said the old cabinet maker at the post office that 
night. The case remained empty until the latter 
part of April, it was a day when the bluebirds 
were carolling in the maple trees, the robins were 
hopping playfully about on the lawns. There 
were tulips in bloom. The station agent seeing 
Lot Frankenberger coming out of the general 
store called out that there was a big box for him 
at the express office. The old horseman looked at 
it, and then went after his horse and carryall. 

By noon the box had been opened and the 
stuffed effigy of the lynx of Indianville Gap in- 
stalled in the handsome case. All afternoon a 
steady stream of callers inspected the crouching, 
glaring manikin. “It’s as natural as life,” was 
the general sentiment expressed. Old Franken- 
berger had a sad, faraway look in his eyes as he 
watched the attention the trophy received. 

‘ ' I owe a lot to the critter, ’ ’ he said to himself. 
“I’m glad I’ve got him stuffed since I couldn’t 
keep him alive. ’ ’ 

Over fifteen years have passed, and the lynx, 
faded by the sun and losing hair in some few 
places, still stares with his glass eyes glowing 




304 IN THE SEVEN MOUNTAINS 


from the walnut case on Lot Frankenberger ’s 
porch. The old man, stooped and very bent, still 
exhibits pride when strangers stop and ask 
to look at it. He is less reticent than in the 
years gone by, but even now all he will vouchsafe 
is ‘ ‘ the critter saved my life, I owe a lot to him. ’ ^ 
Sometimes a bond of kindliness draws mankind a 
trifle nearer to the persecuted kingdom of the 
animals. 


XVI. 


TURNED TO STONE. 

(A Story of Naginey Cave.) 

HOUSANDS of visitors to the 
wonderful cave of Naginey, 
near Milroy, have marveled at 
this superb work of nature 
with its chambers, its cloisters, 
its gothics arches, its domes, 
its walls bush-hammered by 
the Infinite Architect. They 
have been amazed at the Indian spring, in the 
inmost recess of the cavern, with its pool of lim- 
pid, transparent water in which rests a small, 
rounded, yellowed form like a petrified baby. 
This is the crowning surprise of the cave, and 
well repays the strenuous effort now required 
to enter it. It seems a pity that the mouth of the 
cavern has again been allowed to become choked 
with leaves, that the quarrymen are carrying on 
their operations so dangerously near as to im- 
peril what a great poet who once visited it styled 
^‘the eighth wonder of the world. Twenty 

305 



years ago the Naginey cave enjoyed the height of 
its popularity; those were the days when the 
Altoona hand waked the echoes in its gloomy 
labyrinths, when picnic parties made use of it 
every Sunday, all summer long. Now few visit 
the cave, its fame is fast receding, and the image 
of the petrified baby rests most of the time un- 
disturbed by mortal eyes. 

There is a legend connected with this cave 
which carries us back nearly a thousand years in 
the history of the once mighty Lenni-Lenape 
Indians. It was during tKe golden age of the 
noble redmen, centuries before Columbus started 
on his westward voyage. It was long previous 
to the humiliating defeat of the Lenni-Lenape 
by the Susquehannocks at the battle of the Indian 
Steps. According to the belief of the Indians 
living south of the Tussey Mountains, the cavern 
was erected by the creator of the Lenni- 
Lenape, Gitchi Manitto. It was to be a hidden 
shrine, where the wisemen could enter for con- 
templation, to seek counsel before some great 
war or migration. It was for the few, the learned 
and the good only. It must be kept that way, 
as on rare occasions the lesser spirits of the 


realms beyond the grave, and even Gitchi Manit- 
to himself appeared there. When they came to 
earth, the gods were possessed of earthly appe- 
tites. A spring of purest water welled up in the 
cave, reserved only for divine users. 

According to the belief of the Indians in the 
Kishoquoquillas country, prayers to spiritual 
gods could only refer to spiritual wants — 
soul cravings. When the gods took on physi- 
cal form they could be appealed to for 
physical needs — the restoration of health, the 
prolongation of life, freedom from disease, and 
such. The gods, to satisfy all the requirements 
of the faithful, existed part of the time in the 
flesh. They frequented caves and underground 
streams when on earth, and drank from springs 
reserved for their use, like the one in the Na- 
giney cavern. The priests and wise men were 
well aware of these facts and it was a part of 
their duties to instruct mortals not to drink from 
the celestial founts. Ordinary mortals were 
never allowed to enter the caves where the gods 
visited, but the priests and wise men, and kings 
could go there on days of religious festivals. The 
high priests usually built imposing lodge houses 


at the mouths of the sacred caverns, and claimed 
to be on speaking terms with the divine spirits. 
The gods projected themselves into the caves in 
spiritual form, and submerged themselves in the 
sacred springs, which sustained them in physical 
form. When they desired to resume their spirit- 
ual natures they refrained from drinking water 
and after a certain number of hours they sank 
back to a vaporous condition, visible only to the 
eyes of the soothsayers. 

As the faith of the Indians faded through in- 
tercourse with the whites, the gods lost their 
power to take on human form. The greatest 
wants of the Indians being physical when they 
had no one to turn to, their race diminished. 
Such was the theory of the last wise men of the 
Kishoquoquillas region for the gradual decadence 
of their race. The close proximity of the early In- 
dians with their gods had a stimulating effect. 
There could be no agnosticism where the gods 
were visible at times. The wise men who were 
recruited from all the varied castes had the 
greatest powers of seeing. They were most in 
the presence of the divine rulers. The kings 
came next in intercourse with the gods. The 


other castes sometimes saw disembodied spirits, 
but they were mostly wandering ghosts of plain 
people like themselves. One thing was certain, 
the entire Indian race was in closer tune with the 
infinite than any of the white races. 

Man may have progressed financially, mechan- 
ically, perhaps physically, but he has deterior- 
ated spiritually. The second sight of modern 
Indians in the west has been ridiculed alike by 
the government agents and missionaries. But 
this has been done for selfish reasons; it exists 
none the less. The only mystery which is real is 
why such a spiritual race should have been de- 
serted by their gods when the white men came. 
As stated before, it must have been caused by a 
subsiding wave of faith. Some Indians laid it to 
successive acts of sacrilege by their kings. 

One of the early kings of the Kishoquoquillas 
country named Mallikuwagan was noted for his de- 
votion and piety. His respect for the ancient shrines 
and customs gave him the name of the Pilsohal- 
gusswagan or ‘‘holy one^’ among the tribes- 
men. He was married early in life to Ikalissa, a 
beautiful princess from the Juniata country, and 
a, long and happy life was predicted for the 


regal couple. The greatest reward that the 
saintly king desired was a son and heir. He said 
that if he could have a son he would be repaid 
for all his piety and goodness. The priests told 
him that this wish would be granted, that the 
gods must look with favor on such a virtuous 
being. But time went by and no son was born, 
and the king, used to having his own way in 
everything, became impatient. Prayers, public 
and private, proved unavailing; the wisest men 
from distant parts of the country, from as far 
south as the Conedogwinet region, were sum- 
moned to the royal lodge house to seek the aid; 
of the gods in granting the good king’s demand. 

Mallikuwagan became very angry with his 
beautiful young wife, telling her that unless she 
bore him a son within an alloted time she must 
pay for the remissness with her death. The 
charming young queen, who loved her pious hus- 
band devotedly, was taken aback at his unreason- 
able attitude. He had always seemed so gentle,, 
so anxious to talk about kindliness, unselfishnessy 
his duty to others. She was frightened by his. 
dreadful threat, it preyed on her mind, making 
her a wreck mentally and physically. The stip- 


ulated time passed, and no heir was forthcoming. 
The king ordered the queen brought before him, 
telling her that she had been unmindful of her 
duty to the gods by not blessing their favored 
monarch, meaning himself, with a son. As a 
sacrifice to the divine wrath, she must die by 
slow torture. He was sorry to have to order her 
to such a punishment, but the gods were angry, 
he could do nothing else. In all this he spoke 
without authority, as the gods were reallj^ un- 
concerned as to whether a son was born to him 
or not. 

The sentence was carried with great barbarity, 
in the presence of the priests and as many of 
the populace as could be induced to be present. 
The young queen had been very popular with 
all classes; her cruel end aroused much private 
resentment, but the people dared not express 
their sentiments publicly. Lese majeste was an 
offence invariably punished by death. After the 
execution it was whispered about that if the 
king had been patient a while longer he might 
have had an heir. This came to the monarch’s 
«ars, and he was secretly smitten with remorse. 


In order to forget such unwholesome feelings 
he took a second wife within a month. Her 
name was Sukene. She was of his own rank and 
came from the distant valley of the Tondoway. 
She was said to be more beautiful than the first 
wife. He warned her before the elaborate cere- 
mony took place that she must speedily bring 
him a son and heir. She promised to do all in 
her power if the gods willed it to be. The man- 
ner in which he had made this demand on her 
cooled her ardor for her royal bridegroom. She 
kept thinking of the wretched fate meted out to 
her predecessor, and secretly feared a similar 
end for herself. Her entire nervous system be- 
came upset, she lost weight, grew sleepless and 
irritable. The king exhibited no real affection 
towards her; he only talked of one subject and 
that was the heir she must bear him. 

In due season a son was born, wMch seemed 
to be an unusually handsome, robust infant. 
The event was the cause of great rejoicing ; bon- 
fires were kindled on all of the peaks of the Seven 
Mountains. The king was overjoyed, spending 
most of his time fondling and admiring the child. 
He did not say a single kindly word to the queen. 


neglecting her for his new found joy. The in- 
fant thrived until it was a month old. Then it 
was seized with a wasting fever, its chubby little 
form wearing away to a rack of bones. The 
king was alarmed, and prayed night and day to 
his gods. The wisemen doctored and the priests 
prayed over the infant; human and animal sac- 
rifices were made daily. The child grew worse all 
the time; the king was in a frenzy. He con- 
ceived the horrible plan of sacrificing his young 
queen, thinking thereby to appease the gods. The 
poor young woman begged for her life, saying 
that the child would do better with a mother 
than without one. She said she loved the baby, 
she could not bear to leave it. When it was a 
little older she would gladly lay down her life 
for it. Mallikuwagan sneered at her, remarking 
that as a choice had to be made, the infant ’s life 
was more valuable than the older one. She told 
him that she could perhaps bear him another 
heir in ease this one died. This infuriated him 
more than anything else. He said he wanted this 
child, no other. 

When the queen was taken into the forest 
to be roasted alive by a slow fire, one of her de- 


voted hand maidens, Kimixin, forced herself on 
the pyre, and was burned in her stead. Dis- 
guised in her attendant’s clothing, she escaped 
to the north, where she eventually married a 
chieftain of the Susquehannocks. It is said that 
she was an ancestor of the great war chief and 
implacable fCe of the Lenni-Lenape, Pipsisse^ 
Way. The king was kept in ignorance of his 
queen’s escape, and expressed great gratification 
When informed that the execution had been car- 
ried out. “Surely the child will recover now,” 
Was his comment. But the child failed notice- 
ably after his mother was gone. The gods still 
frowned. Mallikuwagan fumed and stormed. 
He would save the child’s life, no matter what 
the means. If the gods would not do it, he would 
do it himself with the gods ^ materials. When the 
wise men broke the news to him that the infant 
Was beyond human aid, he merely clapped his 
hands with glee. 

‘ ‘ I have been waiting to show you pettifoggers 
that I know far more than all of you combined. 
1 will save the child’s life and restore him to 
perfect health.” 


The assemblage of high priests, wise men and 
soothsayers stood about gasping for breath. HoW 
could this king perform the impossible ! 

‘ ‘ I will bathe my son in the sacred spring, ’ ’ he 
Went on. ‘‘It is the refreshment Of the gods; 
they maintain their human form by drinking 
it, my son shall be made well by it.’^ The wise 
men dropped to their knees imploring their 
king not to be guilty Of such a sacrilege. 

“For thousands of years that spring has been 
kept for its holy purpose, to preserve our inter- 
course with the infinite; none but the gods have 
bathed in it Or drank from it. We fear for the 
safety of a dynasty which would commit such a 
foul deed.^^ The king in his anger struck off the 
heads of several of the venerable soothsayers, and 
then ranted some more. “My Son’s life is worth 
as much as the pleasure of the gods ; 1 shall bathe 
him in the sacred spring in the cave. ’ ’ 

Ordering the pUny child to be brought to him^ 
he carried it in his arms to the spring. The 
priests, at the risk of their heads, refused to be a 
party to the sacrilege. Torchbearers and nurses 
led the way into the labyrinth. Far in its chilly 
depths lay the crystalline, limpid pool, the foun- 


tain of the gods. As they neared the spring the 
child began to cry feebly ; its unformed intellect 
was conscious of a great wrong being done. 

‘‘In another minute you will cry no more,’^ 
Said the king with prophetic emphasis. At the 
brink of the basin he stooped down, completely 
immersing the child in the clear depths. He left 
it lie there for scarcely half a minute, and then 
started to lift it out. As his hands touched it, 
they felt as if they clutched cold stone. He tried 
to raise the body, it was petrified solidly to the 
bottom of the basin. He called his torchbearers 
and servants around him, bidding them one by 
one to try and release the child. They all failed ; 
the baby had been turned to stone and was a part 
of the base of the spring. The king tried again 
himself, but when his hands touched the cold 
mass of stone which had so recently been his 
hope, his joy, his grief knew no bounds. Shriek- 
ing with terror and remorse, he fled from the 
cavern. He never stopped running until he 
was in his lodge house. He raved all the rest of 
the day, and all the night. No one came to com- 
fort him, as all were aware that he was being 


punished for his horrible sacrilege. Some of the 
oldest wise men spoke out loudly now. 

“We fear the gods will never come to us in 
human form again ; they will never refresh them- 
selves in a spring polluted by mortals. Here- 
after we must worship unseen gods; they will 
answer our spiritual wants, but physically every- 
thing will go against us. ’ ’ 

In the morning the king was found to be a 
raving maniac, and there was a vociferous de- 
mand that he be put to death like any of his sub- 
jects who might be possessed of devils. His body- 
guard, filled with the royal perogative, rallied 
around him. The mob overcame them, butcher- 
ing them all, and somewhere in the melee the 
king was felled and cut into pieces. A state of 
anarchy ruled in the tribes for several months 
until a cleancut young warrior named Gena- 
moagan, the son of a wise man, proclaimed him- 
self king, becoming the founder of the new dyn- 
asty. But the twilight of the gods became the 
darkness of the Kishoquoquillas race ; henceforth 
they fought their battles unaided by divine 
hands. The gods seemed very far away; no 
matter how loud they might cry out in their 


distress, there came no answering voice. Their 
spiritual prayers were heard, but their earthly 
demands, more pressing and necessary, were un- 
heeded. 

In the gloomy cavern the little petrified baby 
rests, the innocent cause of the break between 
the gods and their chosen people. Those who 
see its little shrunken, yellow form, anchored fast 
to the bottom of the shallow pool, wonder at its 
history, even mistake its identity, its meaning. 
The Indians of the Seven Mountains handed the 
story down from father to son. It was the skele- 
ton at every feast. Whenever a battle went 
against them, or the buffaloes and elks eluded 
them, or their children died, or their crops failed, 
they always pointed in the direction of the cliffs 
of Naginey, saying reverently, “it is the fault of 
Mallikuwagan, the gods will serve us no longer; 
they cannot drink of a polluted spring. ^ ’ 


XVII. 


THE DEVIL’S TURNIP PATCH. 

(An Ancient Legend of the Mingoes.) 

C CORDING to the ancient 
tradition of the Mingoes, the 
Machtando or Devil, repent- 
ing of his evil life, and tiring 
of the rulership of the dark 
realms beneath the earth, 
emerged through a bottom- 
less pit, now known as Wine- 
gardner’s Cove, near the present village of 
Naginey, where the lost spirits are said to gaze 
at the outside world, wailing and moaning on 
moonlight nights, in the form of a very hand- 
some black man. Seeing all the virtuous beings 
engaged in agriculture, or in the chase, he de- 
termined to settle down as a peaceable farmer. 
He inquired of the first person he met where he 
could find some vacant land. The Indian re- 
ceived the tall stranger with politeness, but 
said that every spot of ground within the range 
of his sight was preempted by agriculturalists 

319 



or hunters. They might be induced to sell; did 
the black man have any wampum ? 

As one of the chief attributes of life in the 
realms below was a complete absence of money, 
and a great plentitude of purchasable articles, 
the ex-devil in chief had not realized its utility 
in his new sphere. He replied that he was pen- 
niless, and did not know how to get any money. 
The Indian said that he might earn some by 
labor or by the chase. 

The black man became interested, but when 
he learned that he would have to work every day 
for several years to obtain enough to purchase 
the smallest freehold, he demurred. He asked 
for further particulars concerning the chase; it 
seemed interesting. In his own country wild 
animals were always chasing the condemned 
souls ; he would like to reverse the order of things 
for awhile. The Indian explained to him that 
it would be necessary to purchase or fashion 
spears, arrow points, and axes, in order to kill 
and skin the beasts. After that the hides could 
be sold or exchanged to good advantage. As the 
demon lacked the money, and had not the pa- 


tience to carve out the weapons, he abandoned 
the scheme of becoming a hunter. 

The Indian told him of the pleasures of fish- 
ing ; how much cheap food could be drawn from 
the rivers and ponds. This idea appealed to him 
until he realized that he must buy lines and nets. 
There was nothing left but to find some spot 
where there was no population, and take up a 
plot of ground as a farmer. He asked the oblig- 
ing Indian if he knew where he could find some 
unoccupied land. The savage pointed to the 
east. 

“Follow this path in the direction of the great 
river, there are some places where you will not 
find a single landowner in an hour^s walking.’’ 
In those ancient days the Indian population 
was much more dense than when the white men 
first entered the Seven Mountains. Wars, 
carnage, famine and pestilence had blazed the 
way for the newcomers, leaving vacant many 
fertile fields and hunting grounds. The black 
man thanked his informant and started for the 
east. But he was not altogether satisfied. He 
vowed he would inquire at every lodge house 
along the way, if his informant was correct no 


harm could be done; if wrong, he might not 
have to travel so far. As he walked along ad- 
miring the beautiful country, and basking in 
the warm sunshine, which was forever absent 
in the world below, he made sure to stop at 
every encampment, as well as at each solitary 
lodge house or hunter ^s tent, to ask if there was 
any vacant plot to be had. 

The Indians received him courteously; they 
seemed happy and prosperous, but all told the 
same story. The country had as much popula- 
tion as it could support ; all the land was in the 
hands of private owners. Perhaps in the east, 
near the great river, he could find some that 
was free ; it was poor ground, yet an able-bodied 
man might derive a living from it. A man must 
live where he could. In the less frequented por- 
tions of the way he often encountered wild ani- 
mals. They stood across his path, sunning them- 
selves. Unarmed and unaccustomed to their 
ways, he was powerless to resent their boldness. 
He had to get out of their way on every occa- 
sion. He was impressed by the myriad forms 
of life which inhabited the forests. There were 
buffaloes, moose, elk, large and small varieties 


of deer, brown bears, black bears, black bears 
with white faces, mountain lions, mountain cats, 
wildcats, black wolves, brown wolves, grey foxes, 
white foxes, wolverenes, fishers and countless 
smaller creatures. Sometimes flocks of birds im- 
peded his way, eagles, buzzards, hawks, owls, 
pigeons, heath-hens, grouse, herons, pelicans, rav- 
ens and parrots. 

The wild creatures never having seen a black 
man before exhibited no fear. They displayed 
the same unconcern a thousand years later when 
they saw the white men for the first time. But 
the whites were armed; they began a merciless 
slaughter, never ceasing until whole species were 
annihilated. There seemed to be no end to the 
occupied country. The wilderness inhabited by 
the beasts and birds belonged to kings or power- 
ful warriors, who kept it reserved for the chase. 
The open fields were densely populated; nearly 
every person was ready to sell, even in those 
days the agriculturalists were a dissatisfied class. 
In the course of his travels the black man 
reached a high knob where he could see the 
great river, the Susquehanna, coiling like an 
argent serpent at the foot of the mountains. He 


must be nearing “no man’s land,” where he 
would be given a chance to live by his honest 
toil. 

Being in human form he became beset with 
hunger. He drank all he could from the copious 
springs, but he still felt unsatisfied. The fruit 
was ripening on the trees. At first he feared 
it was the private property of the landowners, 
but hunger at length overcame his scruples, and 
he tasted the wild apples, persimmons, plums 
and grapes. 

After having inhaled sulphur, soot and brim- 
stone for centuries, the ex-bad man was happy 
with these luscious articles of food. He was 
deeply thankful for this reformation; he was 
reaping an early reward. When he reached the 
eastern limit of the mountain top he realized that 
his new home must be near. He surveyed the 
black forest of pine and hemlock which covered 
the mountain from the height where he stood 
clear to the rippling river edge. He met another 
obliging Indian to whom he explained his situ- 
ation. He was a stranger from a distant, hot 
land, he wanted to take up a modest plot of 
ground and become a farmer. 


The Indian told him that he was in the right 
locality, that a very dense population occupied 
all the tillable soil which was not used by the 
kings and chieftains for their hunting grounds. 
He pointed to a bench on the slope half way 
down the mountain, saying that if he made ap- 
plication to the representative of the king, he 
could doubtless obtain the right to settle on it. 
The king’s agent lived on the opposite bank of 
the river; the accommodating Indian agreed to 
accompany him there. The path to the foot of 
the mountain led by the plot which the stranger 
might occupy ; the public road runs by it today ; 
and he had a good chance to look it over. It 
was shaded by a dense growth of red hemlocks, 
and contained several springs. The ground was 
covered with huge uneven boulders, which had 
been cast up when the mountain was formed by 
a dragon emerging from the bowels of the earth. 
The devil knew this story well, though he was 
silent at the time. He had expelled this dragon 
from the infernal region as an undesirable citi- 
zen, and an army of human beings had slain it 
as its hideous, angry head appeared from the 
depths. 


The Indian guide went on to say that if once 
the layer of rocks were removed, the plot would 
make an ideal turnip patch. He explained that 
turnips were easily raised; the seeds could be 
found in the open spaces in the forests, and a 
living could be made off them until he became 
skilled in raising other plants. At the base of 
the mountain a dugout was moored to one of the 
giant hemlocks; in it the stranger and his ac- 
quaintance crossed the river. The black man 
was delighted with the smooth, limpid, trans- 
parent water, so different from the rivers of fire 
and steam in his own realm. They found the 
king’s land agent at home. He lived in a cool 
and commodious lodge house built of white 
birch logs. He seemed delighted to greet the 
stranger, and accede to his wishes. He could 
have the land for himself and heirs forever pro- 
vided he paid an annual tax amounting to one- 
tenth of the crops raised. The black man was 
overjoyed; in his imagination he fancied him- 
self a respectable subject of the king, with fer- 
tile lands, and a comfortable income. His past 
would be forever left behind. He acceded to 
the agent’s terras, stating that he as ready to go 


to work immediately, clearing the land. The 
agent asked him if he wished to engage any 
help. He replied that he was in modest cir- 
cumstances, and would prefer to save his little 
hoard by doing the work himself. The agent and 
the Indian guide re-crossed the river with him, 
and showed him the boundaries of his new do- 
main. The rocks which covered every inch of it, 
looked bigger than ever, but the stranger gritted 
his teeth, he would stand by his bargain. At 
nightfall the agent bade him good-bye, congrat- 
ulating him upon his willingness to clear the 
ground unaided. 

^‘Underneath that layer of stones is good soil; 
you can begin by raising a bumper crop of tur- 
nips. ’ ’ This confirmed what the guide had said, 
and re-awakened his energies. The Indian com- 
panion, hating to leave such a respectable look- 
ing person alone in the wilderness, invited him 
to spend the night at his modest home. The 
stranger lost no time in accepting — company 
might drive away thoughts of failure which 
would crowd into his mind in the weary watches 
of the night. The Indian ^s home and tiny farm 
were situated on the summit of the mountain. 


about two miles from the devil’s turnip patch. 
It was past dark when they reached it, but the 
redman’s watchful squaw had a bonfire of rich- 
pine burning to show the way. The Indian^ 
whose name was Cheerful Dew, had a numerous 
family, including a beautiful young daughter 
of sixteen summers called Light of the Morning. 
Like the rest of the young folks, she seemed 
frightened at the imposing height and dark vis- 
age of the unexpected guest. The stranger’s 
manners were easy and affable, he was so con- 
fiding, that before bedtime the slim young girl 
was quite won over. She pulled her blanket 
around herself to dream of him as her dusky 
lover. 

Bright and early next morning his ex-satanie 
majesty repaired to his “farm’^ to commence 
the clearing operations. Strong as he was he 
could not push the aged hemlocks out of root. 
They gripped the stones with grim stubbornness, 
had done so for centuries; by nightfall he had 
not budged a single tree. As he had been in- 
vited to remain with Cheerful Dew and his fam- 
ily as long as he liked, he repaired thither, smil- 
ing broadly to hide his chagrin. Of course 


they asked him how he had gotten along with his 
work. He was compelled to tell them that he had 
made scant headway against the forces of nature. 
He asked for the loan of some of their imple- 
ments to fell the trees. His host informed him 
that the Indians did not possess axes stout 
enough to chop down such mighty trees; they 
had knives which girdled the bark. This killed 
the trees, and in due season they fell out of 
root. When they died they lost their needles, 
letting in the sun on the plantations. “Where I 
come from it is very warm, yet we have no sun, ’ ’ 
said the stranger sardonically. The Indian 
further explained to him that while he was wait- 
ing for the trees to die he could he digging out 
the stones. There was undoubtedly plenty to do, 
but the stranger was undismayed. The next 
morning, armed with a borrowed scalping knife, 
he returned to his possessions. After a long 
day’s work he seemed to have scarcely made any 
impression on the forest. The circumferences 
of the ancient hemlocks were so great that it 
took several hours to cut a ring around a single 
tree. The genial company of Light of the Morn- 
ing served to keep up his spirits upon his return ; 


he sought his borrowed blanket cheerfully. For 
a month he plied his task faithfully. At the end 
of that time he could scarcely notice that he had 
done anything at all. 

The cold weather was setting in, yet, despite 
all his exertions, he shivered miserably. He had 
formed the idea that he would have the land 
cleared by spring in time to start his first turnip 
crop ; now if he had all the hemlocks girdled by 
that time he would be fortunate. The trees must 
be dead before he could plant his seeds ; turnips 
would not grow in the shade. But after the trees 
were dead he must remove the rocks, as no soil 
was apparent. He was utterly discouraged; it 
was galling to his imperious pride to be living 
off the bounty of a poor Indian family, with no 
prospects of ever repaying them. He had about 
made up his mind to abandon the task and start 
away on another search for land when a devilish 
idea entered his head. He was in love with, and 
was evidently loved by the beautiful daughter 
of his Indian friend. Why not marry her and 
assist her father on his farm, leaving the turnip 
patch lie fallow until a more propitious time. It 
would be an easy way to escape all his difficul- 


ties; he did not mind work, but he was not yet 
up to the point of accomplishing the impossible. 

He took a final look at the interminable propo- 
sition; the endless sea of giant hemlocks, which 
rose from the rocks “as thick as hair on a dog’s 
back,” the network of heavy stones, millions of 
them there seemed on the few acres. The happi- 
ness that his new life promised would be slaved 
away ; better have remained master in his inferno 
than a drudge in such a desert. He sat and 
meditated for the rest of the day; life seemed 
sweet to him again as he was not used to toil. 

At dusk he wended his way td his patron’s home. 
The rest had done him good; his lustrous dark 
eyes sparkled, as in the days in the world be- 
low, his black hair was sleek and straight, a 
satanicly captivating smile played about the cor- 
ners of his thin lips. He made no advances until 
after supper. Then he asked the beautiful Light 
of the Morning to accompany him for a stroll. 
He wanted her to explain to him the names of the 
stars; there were none in the deep valley where 
he had lived. The girl consented with alacrity. 
He was so elated that he did not stop to note the 


expressions on the faces of her parents. Very 
little was said about the names of the stars. 

The stranger was not long in opening out with 
his love story; he had loved her since the first 
moment he had laid eyes on her, when he had 
come to the house that eventful evening with 
her generous father. The girl coyly confessed 
that his odd appearance had frightened her at 
first, but before that same evening was over she 
had loved him. Yes, she had loved him truly 
ever since. Moreover he was her first love, she 
had never seen a man before who had attracted 
her. She had grieved over his non-success on the 
turnip patch, as his wife she would help him 
with his toil, sympathize with him in his disap- 
pointments. He allowed the sweet creature to 
say no more. Catching her in his arms, he 
thanked her for her self-expressed willingness to 
be his wife. Then hand in hand, they had not 
gone very far, they returned to Cheerful Dew’s 
lodge house to obtain the parental blessing. The 
suave Indian listened attentively to the black 
man’s request for his daughter’s hand in mar- 
riage. Then his face darkened like a thunder- 
cloud ; his wife looked equally unfriendly. 





PENN’S CREEK AND PINE CREEK, AT COBURN Photo by S. W. Smith 



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‘ ‘ I cannot allow my daughter to marry a per- 
son about whom we know nothing,’^ he replied 
decisively. “Tell me first about yourself, your 
former home and parentage; as matters stand 
now, you can never obtain my consent.’^ This 
speech, unlooked for, literally knocked the props 
from under the devil’s feet. He was too taken 
aback to make up a false story of his life. 

“ I am a respectable stranger, ’ ’ he faltered. ‘ ‘ I 
can only say that I will make your daughter a 
good husband.” 

‘ ‘ Tell me your antecedents, and I will consider 
the matter,” rejoined Cheerful Dew, scowling 
fiercely, “otherwise, never. 

“My life here speaks volumes,” pleaded the 
black man. “Have I not been industrious and 
steady ? ’ ’ 

Here the Indian signalled that he had heard 
enough, and drawing his buffalo blanket over his 
head, lay down on the floor of the lodge house. 
The vigorous squaw next took the case in hand. 
First she ordered the stranger from the house, 
and then told the girl to get her blanket and lie 
down and go to sleep. The stranger sheepishly 
wandered out into the night, his head full of 


confusion. Were it not that he had reformed, 
he might have murdered the old Indians and 
stolen the girl. In his belt hung the sharp scalp- 
ing knife that he had used to girdle the ancient 
hemlocks. But he had reformed. His first im- 
pulse was to quit the hateful region ; it had been 
unlucky to him from the first day. He soon 
quelled this longing, as he could not bear the 
thought of never seeing Light of the Morning 
again. He would compromise by lurking in the 
woods until he could have a last look, a last kiss. 
H^ would like to run away with her, but to 
where ? He had no money nor ability to provide 
for her, even if he eloped with her. If they 
stole her father’s dugout and started down the 
stream hunger would compel them to seek shore ; 
it was now almost winter, nuts were scarce, there 
was no more fruit on the trees. He had not 
thought that perhaps Light of the Morning was a 
huntress, and could provide for them on their 
way. If she was skilled in the chase it would 
be a great help ; anyway he would watch for her, 
matters would adjust themselves if they could 
meet face to face. 


Evidently the young girl’s parents suspected 
that he would attempt a clandestine meeting, 
as it was nearly two weeks before he was able 
to see her. In the meantime, he almost froze to 
death sleeping on the rocks; he missed Cheerful 
Dew’s cozy quarters. His only food was chest- 
nuts and a few frozen wild apples and plums. 
He was attacked by wolves and mountain lions. 
He was gaunt, but yet traces of his old charm 
remained, as he arose from behind a boulder to 
greet her. The girl who was out gathering nuts, 
seemed overjoyed to see him, and sprang into his 
arms with all the agility of a fawn. She said 
that her parents had held her captive for ten 
days, but at length had come to the conclusion 
that the cold weather had driven the stranger 
to seek warmer climes. 

The black man explained to her that he was 
penniless and no hunter, that if she would go 
away with him in her father ’s dugout, he would 
support her in some habitable region in the east. 
But en route, if she possessed any aptitude as a 
huntress, she could assist greatly by providing 
food for them both. The young girl hurst into 
tears. Between sobs she said that she had never 


even killed a chipmunk or a humming bird; she 
knew nothing of the methods of the chase. 

^‘Why don’t you take me to your country,” 
she wailed. “You lived there comfortably be- 
fore you came here ; no matter where it is, take 
me to it. ’ ’ 

The stranger was silenced by her plea. 

He hung his dark head, and then speaking 
very softly, replied: “I did not dare tell your 
parents who I was because I am the former ruler 
of the realms under the earth. I could not take 
you to inferno. ’ ’ 

Light of the Morning clasped him tighter than 
before, crying “take me there ; I would be happy 
anywhere with you.^* 

“Do you understand fully what I mean?” 
said the devil, abashed by the extent of her love. 
“Do you realize that my home is the abode of 
lost souls, who are writhing in everlasting tor- 
ment? You would have to witness terrible 
scenes, you would never smile again ! You 
could never return. ’ ’ 

“I don’t care what is there. I love you; I 
would never smile if you went away without me, ’ ’ 
said Light of the Morning. 


“If you are determined, then we shall go 
there at once. All this repentence with starva- 
tion and humiliation as the reward counts for 
nothing; I will improve in goodness in inferno 
with you at my side, quicker than as a lowly 
toiler in some field of rocks.*’ 

Taking her by the hand, they started in a 
westerly direction along the summit of the lofty 
mountain. They had strolled along for several 
hours, often stopping to kiss and embrace, when 
the preternaturally keen ears of the black man 
detected the sound of footsteps on the brittle 
leaves on the path some distance behind. He 
whispered the news to his exquisite companion, 
who suggested that they leave the trail, and go 
down the side of the mountain to elude the pur- 
suer — who was undoubtedly Cheerful Dew. For 
a time they went their way towards the valley, 
apparently unmolested. But again the black 
man heard pursuing footsteps. They quickened 
their pace, but the sound of feet pattering on 
dry leaves grew plainer and plainer. By the 
time they reached the valley their pursuers 
seemed to be only several hundred yards in the 
rear. Coming to an open space, where the timber 


had been burned away by successive fires, they 
noticed Cheerful Dew and several other warriors, 
armed with spears, emerging from the woods. 
Flight was no longer possible, a confiict was im- 
minent. It could but result in favor of Cheerful 
Dew and his henchmen as the black man was 
armed only with a scalping knife. 

In the forest into which the eloping couple 
now fled was a wide black chasm ; it was the air 
hole of some subterranean labyrinth, or a sink 
from a cave-in. It loomed before them as a haven 
of refuge. Fate had sent them there, it seemed. 
Before the eyes of their enemies, they plunged 
into the black hole ; they were in the underworld, 
free, forever. Just as Cheerful Dew and his sup- 
porters reached the opening, rocks fell into it, 
making it impossible to descend. The deserted 
father fell in a swoon, and was carried back to 
his lodge house. He never recovered from the 
shock, was weak and nervous to the end of his 
days. The black man and his beautiful love were 
never seen again. From that day on, the valley 
where they disappeared became known as Black 
Hole Valley; doubtless the backsliding Mach- 
tando and Light of the Morning are happy in the 


profound abyss. Perhaps for this reason the 
tortures of the inferno have lessened in their 
severity. The arch-fiend has learned from per- 
sonal contact the failings and temptations of 
mankind. But humanity, less fearful of tor- 
tures to come, regarding sin with less loathing, 
have sunk into depths of villainy that the ancient 
Indians would have abhorred. Persons passing 
through the beautiful Black Hole Valley little 
guess as to its sinister history, of it being the 
scene of the evil one^s ungraceful exit from the 
living world which he sought to grace. 


XVIII. 


STORY OF THE CANNON HOLE. 

(A Legend of the Invasion of 1756.) 

HEN the vanguard of the 
invading force of French 
and Indians started down 
the West Branch of the Sus- 
quehanna in the early sum- 
mer of 1756, determined to 
destroy Fort Augusta and 
the adjoining English settle- 
ments, the first raft was commanded by the 
young Viscount Emile Malartie. He was the 
ranking officer of the fiotilla, which numbered 
twenty rafts and bateaus. Most of the five hun- 
dred French trappers and soldiers rode in the 
boats, while the thousand Indians who accom- 
panied them marched along on the shores as an 
armed bodyguard. The raft on which the com- 
mandant made his headquarters contained a 
heavy brass cannon which had seen service in the 
Thirty Years’ War. It was to he used to de- 
molish the British forts, and bring the helpless 
340 



settlers to a point where they would be ready 
to sue for peace. After leaving the present site 
of Williamsport, the leading raft seemed to catch 
the current better than the rest, for it swirled 
along at a rate where it distanced the others, and 
above all the Indian guards. The invading 
force had met with no opposition thus far. The 
few pioneers who had erected cabins on the 
Sinnemahoning and the West Branch fled at the 
sight of this formidable armada. Some French 
trappers who had been harrassed by the English 
scouts who sought to drive them from the region, 
offered their arms to Malartie, and accompanied 
him on his raft as expert guides. 

In the fertile Muncy valley a number of sett- 
lers, Germans, Scotch-Irish and Quakers had es- 
tablished themselves and built comfortable 
houses and barns. They feared that they would 
be dispossessed by the French invaders, who, if 
luck favored them, might reduce Fort Augusta, 
which was the key of the entire situation. These 
frontiersmen formed a private company of de- 
fense, and elected a North of Ireland man named 
Fitz Hugh Jemison as their captain. They 
would frighten the invaders by a show of force. 


perhaps turn them back without firing a shot at 
Col. Hunter garrison. They rigged: themselves 
out in red coats, in imitation of aggressively at- 
tired British soldiers. These coats were made hy 
sewing on the outside of their homespun jackets 
the material's from their red undershirts. They 
covered their caps with the same goods, and 
when half hidden by the forest could not be taken 
for anything else but real soldiers of King 
George. 

When the raft eonfaming Viscount Malartie 
and his brother officers reached a point in the 
river where the water was very deep — sixty feet 
in high water, it is said; — ^the ‘‘^redcoats appeared 
among the tangle of vines and bushes by the 
north bank, and began an active fusillade. The 
Frenchmen were so taken aback that they lost 
their presence of mind, but only for a second. 
They rushed to the side of the raft nearest the 
shore, and began firing at the supposed British 
force. There was a circular current at this spot, 
and the steering-oar, abandoned for an instant, 
caused the raft to veer about. The cannon hap- 
pened to incline towards the side to which the 
Frenchmen had gone; the combined; weight was. 


too much, the raft upset in midstream. As the 
Frenchmen floundered about in the water the 
sharpshooters on the bank picked them off, one by 
one, until all were apparently dead men. The 
cannon, which was nailed to the flooring of the 
raft, carried the entire barge to the bottom. In 
its capsized state it rested there, with the cannon 
on the bottom side, rapidly sinking into the muck. 
In very low water modern raftsmen say that their 
rowers have struck the platform of the raft, un- 
der which the cannon from the Thirty Years’ 
War lies submerged in this distant land. Ever 
since that time the point where the disaster oc- 
curred has been called ‘^the cannon hole.” 

The rafts further up the river, and the Indians 
along the shore were thrown into a state of 
panic by the sudden annihilation of the com- 
manding barge. All the commissioned officers 
were aboard it. To their frightened senses they 
imagined that a force of several thousand 
British troops were massed along the river, ready 
to destroy each craft as it passed. The non- 
commissioned officers commanding the other 
rafts veered them into shore, compelling the 
Indians to drag them on the beach and construct 


them into an improvised stockade. They would 
meet the British in a state of preparedness this 
time. Several days passed and no signs of at- 
tack materialized. Indian scouts were sent out, 
but they could locate no British force. At the 
time none of them supected the ruse which had 
been played so skillfully by the farmers. It was 
decided that it would be a dangerous plan to re- 
embark on the rafts, yet if they returned without 
making a show of strength against Fort Augusta, 
there might be a general court-martial. With no 
commissioned officers, no one cared to take re- 
sponsibility. Swift runners were dispatched to 
Lake Erie to find out what should be done. The 
delay caused general dissatisfaction among the 
Indians. They had started on the expedition 
reluctantly, they wanted to do some fighting to 
justify the long trip. 

Disobeying orders, five hundred of them start- 
ed overland in the direction of Fort Augusta, 
Their route was across the Bald Eagle Moun- 
tains, planning to attack the fort from the Blue 
Hill on the opposite side of the river. History 
records that they fired a few shots, and after 
seeing the impenetrability of the fortified posi- 


tion, slunk back into the forests. Meanwhile the 
runners returned to the camp, with instructions 
to the force to return at once to Lake Erie. In 
the excitement of the sortie from the shore, one 
man from the officers’ raft apparently escaped 
alive. 

He happened to be Viscount Malartie, the first 
in command. He had fallen into the river when 
the raft capsized, been hit on the head by a corner 
of it, and knocked senseless. He had fioated 
down stream submerged, and been Overlooked 
by the sharpshooters’ bullets. The cool water 
had brought him to his senses a few minutes after 
he had drifted into an eddy on the Bald Eagle 
Mountain side of the river. There was a terrible 
gash in the side of his head, he was bruised from 
head to foot, his mind was dazed. When he was 
able to get to his feet the instinct of self-preser- 
vation goaded him to wander along the face of 
the mountain, gradually ascending it. The 
echoes of the awful fusillade which had slain his 
companions was still ringing in his ears. He 
imagined that the rafts one after another as they 
appeared, had been wrecked and destroyed by 
the British soldiery. As he carried valuable 


maps and orders in his pockets he fancied that 
his only safety lay in flight. His compass had 
been lost, the day was foggy, he was ignorant to 
a great extent as to where he was traveling. If 
he could go west or south he would fall in with 
friendly Indians or French officers or trappers. 
He was humiliated at the sudden defeat of his 
flotilla; he had dreamed much of its chances of 
success. He had pictured in his thoughts Coh 
Hunter capitulating, the victorious fleet sweeping 
eastward, the French firmly established in the 
entire middle and western part of Pennsylvania. 
Now probably every man of his command, ex- 
cepting himself, was dead; it would be horrible 
news to the ambitious leaders on Lake Erie. He 
was too heartbroken, too upset physically to feel 
hunger or thirst ; all he cared to do was to go on, 
on, on. Night set in, and he dropped in a dizzy 
stupor among some leaves. He wakened while it 
was still dark, hearing wolves howling danger- 
ously near to him ; he realized that he had lost his 
pistol in the water, he only carried a slim sword. 
He got up and plunged forward in the darkness. 
Often he could have dropped in his tracks, but 
that he felt himself too high in the social scale 


to become a feast for wolves. As a child, he had 
been surrounded by a pack of wolves on his 
father’s estate in Clermont-Ferrand; he would 
have been devoured had it not been for the timely 
appearance of a gamekeeper. It seemed that 
wolves were his Nemesis. 

Daylight appeared through the tops of the 
tall pines ; the sun did not remain long, 
lowery clouds like the day before prevailed, 
adding considerably to his melancholy. He 
sat down frequently to rest, each time getting 
up a trifle refreshed. His physical hurts were 
abating, though he was weak from loss of blood. 
He felt thirst, and later hunger, signs of return- 
ing vigor. He drank copiously from the springs, 
and ate some wild leeks, strong as they were, to 
allay his demand for food. He had noted the 
direction where the sun had risen, he decided to 
move in a directly opposite route. With the in- 
herent courage of a well-bred man, he covered 
an incredible distance that day. He passed over 
the headwaters of Buffalo Creek into the region 
of Laurel Eun, which is a tributary of Penn’s 
Creek. He tried to sleep in a hollow in the rocks 
which was filled almost to the surface with leaves j 


it was as soft as a feather bed. The wolves had 
followed him, for they circled about his refuge, 
barking like fiends. Malartie drew his rapier ; he 
Would pierce any beast which came too near. 
They made no move to attack him, yet remained 
in his proximity until daybreak, when they trot- 
ted away, looking back and wagging their tails 
like friendly dogs. 

Hunger and nervous exhaustion were beginning 
to tell on the young officer; he found that he 
could not travel as well as on the day before. 
At times his legs acted unsteadily, he saw black 
before his eyes. The sun shone at times this day, 
which was an aid spiritually. 

At about noon he saw to his surprise a solitary 
cabin built of black birch logs, roofed with pine 
boughs. It stood in the centre of a small clear- 
ing which was planted with hills of Indian corn. 
The young man, ragged, swarthy and bearded, 
presented an ill-favored appearance, but he ap- 
proached the door of the hut. Inside, seated on a 
bench, weaving, was a young Indian girl, of prob- 
ably twenty years. She was tawny colored, black- 
haired and her eyes were long and narrow, like 
those of an Oriental. The Frenchman knew sev* 


eral Indian dialects, but he chose to speak to her 
in French, lest she mistake him for an English 
spy and have him murdered. The girl indicated 
that she did not understand French, yet appre- 
ciated the fact that he was not a foe. He then 
spoke to her in the language of the Mingoes, to 
which she replied cordially. He told her of the 
great disaster which had overtaken the French 
and Indian allies at the Suequehanna three days 
before, of his escape, his hunger, his fatigue. He 
noticed that the young woman ^s eyes and lips 
quivered as he related the story; when he had 
finished tears stood out in her long eyes. She 
said that she could sympathize with him in his 
trouble, that she had been left a widow a month 
previously, her husband being murdered in cold 
blood by scouts in the employ of the English, af- 
ter he had refused them information concerning 
the movements of the French. She had buried 
him with her own hands among the yellow pines 
back of the clearing. After his death an infant 
was born. She showed him the papoose strapped 
to a board handing from a peg on the wall. She 
had hoped that the young warrior’s cruel death 
would be avenged when the allies attacked Fort 


360 


Augusta, but now a wholesale calamity had been 
added to the weight of her sorrows. She said 
that her name was Asteria ; her husband ’s name 
had been Wuh-hala. 

The common misfortune created a bond of 
sympathy between Malartie and the lovely 
Indian widow. She invited him to remain at 
her cabin until his wound was healed, 
and he became strong enough to endure the 
tramp to the West. She would gladly put him 
on a trail, known as the Buffalo Path, which 
would lead him across the mountains in the di- 
rection of the Sinnemahoning. 

The officer was extremely grateful for her 
kindly treatment, especially so as on the next 
day he found himself so stiffened from his hard- 
ships that he could proceed no further. The 
young woman rubbed his limbs with bear’s 
grease, but it was two days before he felt able 
to resume the journey. The morning on which he 
had planned to start he was aroused by Asteria ’s 
little half-wild dog barking furiously. Without 
looking outside, the girl whispered to him the 
words “English scouts.” He lay flat in the far 
corner of the cabin, while his good angel piled 


buffalo robes and bear hides over him. Then she 
walked boldly to the door. She was correct in 
her surmise, as three powerfully built Germans 
came across the cornfield and saluted her. They 
told her that the French and Indians had been 
defeated with great loss, that bands of scattered 
redmen were everywhere in the forests. They 
demanded to know if she had seen or harbored 
any of them. 

“You must not forget your husband’s fate,” 
said the spokesman of the party, whom she rec- 
ognized as one of her husband’s slayers. Malar- 
tie, hidden under the huge pile of hides, could 
hear parts of the conversation, but he trusted to 
Asteria’s shrewdness to save the situation. The 
girl informed them that she had seen no Indians 
since the time indicated, that if she did she would 
send them on their way; she had learned a 
sufficient lesson to remain neutral. The Germans 
said that they were hungry, that they smelled 
cooking. Asteria served them a pot of corn soup 
which they ate ravenously. Their stomachs sat- 
isfied, they became more sociable, especially after 
the girl had filled their pipes with some of her 
late husband’s choicest tobacco. They smoked 


and chatted until late in the afternoon, when, 
with profuse thanks for the courtesies displayed, 
they took themselves off into the forest. After 
they had gone a sufficient lengh of time, Asteria 
unrolled the young officer from under the pile of 
blankets. He was as white as a sheet, and vio- 
lently ill, as a result of his suffocating position. 

The girl told him that the men were Halle, 
Emerick and Bessler, three scouts in the service 
of Col. Conrad Weiser, the chief Indian agent 
of the colony. They seemed like jovial fellows, 
but were quick tempered when crossed. Halle 
had ordered her husband’s death; some day she 
would revenge herself on him; an Indian never 
forgot a wrong. Yet it was policy to be pleasant 
to him when he had her in his power. She strong- 
ly advised the young man not to attempt to leave 
for the west inside of a week. The German scouts 
had a habit of lurking about certain neighbor- 
hoods when their suspicions were aroused. They 
trusted to first impressions ; they hated to change 
their minds. Undoubtedly Indians retreating 
westward from the silly “attack” at Shamokin 
would pass through the Laurel Run country ; the 
scouts knew their favored routes to the west. 


Malartie was perfectly contented to remain 
under Asteria’s comfortable roof. She was good 
to look upon, had all the refinement of the an- 
cient Indians, was kinder to him than any 
woman had been before. A soldier since he was 
fourteen, wandering and fighting, he had seen 
little of the finer aspects of women’s natures. 
The idea of marrying and settling down had 
never before appealed to him. Now it took full 
possession of his nature, it was the awakening 
of love. He knew that he would probably spend 
the remainder of his life in the French service 
in America; a beautiful Indian wife would 
make his days in the wilderness tolerable. He 
waited until the day appointed for his departure 
to impart the story of his love. Asteria must 
care for him, she had been so anxious to keep 
him with her ; it would be worth trying anyway. 
He felt very ill at ease during the intervening 
period; the words of love were ever at the tip 
of his tongue; he could hardly force himself to 
discuss formal topics. All the while he was 
watching the girl; to find confirmation of his 
belief that she cared for him. He selected as 
the best time the walk that they were to take to- 


gether, when she was to put him on the trail 
which led to the Sinnemahoning country. It 
was a rainy morning; the water poured off the 
roof in cascades. Asteria looked out, shaking 
her head. 

“My friend,’’ she said softly, “you had better 
remain another day under my roof. I will 
gladly accompany you to the northern trail, but 
what is the use of hurrying away in such dread- 
ful weather?” 

This seemed to strengthen Malartie’s theory 
that she would like him to remain with her. 
The Frenchman laid aside the buffalo cloak 
which he had intended wearing, and sat down on 
a stool made of stags’ horns, just inside the 
door. 

“I will stay another day,” he said, taking in 
his the hand of the Indian girl, who stood beside 
him. “But when I go, I want you to accompany 
me and become my wife. I love you with all 
my heart; I cannot leave you and your baby 
here alone.” 

“I am very, very sorry,” said Asteria. “I 
think that I love you, but I could never leave the 
grave of my poor husband. When I buried him 


with my own hands I swore before my Gitchi- 
Manitto that I would remain nearby as long 
as there was life in my body. It is our faith 
never to abandon our dead.” 

“But can you see me go away never to meet 
again, while you remain in this unfriendly coun- 
try, liable to the treachery of German scouts, 
the attacks of wild beasts and wretched loneli- 
ness?” 

“I realized all that when I made my vow; of 
course I never dreamed of meeting you; but 
the words have been said ; I am here for my life- 
time. ’ ^ She was silent for a minute, hanging her 
pretty head. Then she spoke again. “If you 
love me, why can ’t you remain here ? ’ ^ 

The young officer was amazed at this, but he 
had to make reply. “Dearest Asteria,” he said, 
“much as I love you, I cannot rest here, a de- 
serter in a hostile region. My duty to my king is 
to report as quickly as possible to my command- 
ing officer. It wiU be hard enough to explain 
how I came to be the sole survivor of my barge, 
how I led my force into such a trap. ’ ^ 

“I should not have asked you to remain,” re- 
plied Asteria, “knowing that ^ou are an officer. 


I fear our fates must follow separate channels, 
yet neither of us can be happy again. 

“What you say is in perfect truth,” said 
Malartie, “my career is ended; I cannot be 
happy without you.” Then he was lost in 
thought for several moments. “I have a splen- 
did idea,” he said at length, his dark eyes light- 
ing with enthusiasm. “I will report to my su- 
perior officer, and then after my defeat has been 
explained to his satisfaction, I will resign my 
commission and return to you.” 

“Your plan is wonderful,” said Asteria, lean- 
ing over and kissing his bearded cheek. The 
young man arose from the bench. 

‘ ^ I think I will be off, rain or no rain ; I must 
accomplish our destiny quickly.” 

Asteria threw a tawny panther hide about her 
shoulders and went with him into the rain, which 
now showed signs of lessening. They parted 
with many kisses and protestations of love at the 
crossways. The happy soldier hurried to the 
north, reaching his destination in five days. To 
his relief, he found matters not so bad as he had 
feared. The other rafts had not been wrecked; 
most of the Indians who had disobeyed orders 


and attempted to attack Fort Augusta were 
coming back in small parties. The only loss was 
the one raft with its group of officers, scouts and 
the brass cannon from the Thirty Years’ War. 

Within three months’ time his resignation had 
been accepted provisionally: he was granted a 
three months’ leave of absence until his honor- 
able discharge could be received from Versailles. 
When the leave of absence was allowed, he at 
once started for the lonely cabin on the head- 
waters of Laurel Run. It was a perilous trip 
through a hostile country, but love gave him 
added caution and speed. 

Within a week he reached the little clearing. 
To his horror naught but ashes and ruins of the 
cabin remained. The cornfield was trampled 
down, as if a force had occupied it. All was 
desolation and loneliness. In his absence the 
hut had been burned to the ground, the occu- 
pants were gone. He searched among the debris 
for signs that Asteria and her child had per- 
ished with it ; there were none, they had probably 
fled before the flames, or had been carried away 
by the cruel English conquerors. Even the 


grave of the murdered husband, Wuh-hala, had 
been pillaged. 

Stern veteran that he was, the Viscount Ma- 
lartie fell on his knees and wept. When he 
recovered himself, he resolved to search the 
Seven Mountains for his missing love. He had 
to move about by stealth, as the territory was 
under English rule. He met many friendly In- 
dians, but all of them disclaimed knowledge of 
the fate of Asteria. He spent his entire leave of 
absence in the search, having many narrow es- 
capes from the German scouts and hostile red- 
men. Even the wolves troubled him every night, 
but he feared to shoot because of the noise. Re- 
luctantly he returned to Lake Erie, in time to 
receive his accepted resignation. He bade fare^ 
well to his companions and started for his home 
in Clermont-Ferrand. The voyage set him to 
thinking, and when he returned to bis parental 
chateau he was bright and cheerful. He said 
that he had fought enough, henceforward he 
was to be a man of peace. He married within 
two years to a young lady of his own caste, and 
became the father of several children. It is said 
that his eldest son, the Viscount Francois-Marie 


‘UNT 


i:: 


si::^ 


Malartie traveled extensively in the United 
States, shortly after the Revolutionary War. 
One of the localities he visited, looking at with 
interest, was where his father ^s barge had been 
wrecked in the depths of the Cannon Hole on the 
West Branch. 


XIX. 


THE GHOSTLY LIGHTS. 

(A Story of an Ancient Public-House.) 

HE old-fashioned town of 
Indianville consists of a sin- 
gle long street, lined on both 
sides by primitive log cabins. 
It is a street nearly a mile in 
length, but the yards about 
the cozy little dwellings are 
so spacious that the number of 
houses is not as numerous as might be supposed. 
In the southern end of the town, which is near- 
est the L. & T. railway station, half a dozen of 
the log cabins have been weather boarded, 
porches added, the trees on their lawns trimmed 
and otherwise modernized. They do not add to 
the charm of the village, and are best forgotten 
by anyone wishing to create a mental picture of 
it. At the northerly end, near where Indian 
Run surges out from the narrow gap, a number 
of the cabins are deserted. The mountain-asb 
trees in the yards are dead, most of the gates are 
860 



unhinged, whole panels of yard fences are down. 
It is a woe-begone, desolate scene, especially on 
a dark, bleak day. 

A furlong beyond the last cottage, at the 
mouth of the gap, stands the ruined public* 
house, once known as the Last Chief Tavern. It 
was abandoned by the last tenant as long ago as 
1892, although the tavern sign, the wrought iron 
figure of an Indian in full regalia, with the date 
1801 below, swung to the breeze in a much rusted 
condition until six years later. A relic hunter 
from Pittsburg saw it, hunted up the owner, and 
bought it for fifteen dollars. The existence of 
two more up-to-date hotels nearer the railway 
station was the ostensible reason for the crowd- 
ing out of the old time hostelry. The public al- 
ways fancied public houses close to the busy 
centres, — they always preferred the new instead 
of the old, even though the rooms in the newer 
hotels were smaller. But there were other rea- 
sons which conspired to close the ancient stand. 

The story was rumored about that it was 
haunted. Before the new hotels went up, visi* 
tors were willing to put up with ghosts; after- 
wards they were glad to shun their habitations 


The ghosts which flitted about the Last Chief 
were almost as old as the building itself. They 
dated back to the flrst quarter of the nineteenth 
century, as far back as the oldest inhabitants of 
Indianville could remember. A few years ago 
there were three aged men living in the village 
who were old enough to recollect the events 
which caused the haunting of the old hoteL 
They were Uncle Dan McChesney, Pappy Him- 
melreich, and Daddy Sweitzer. All three were 
veterans of the Mexican War, which stamped 
them as persons of reliability. There were few 
permanent residents of Indianville who had not 
seen the ghosts, or rather the ghostly lights. Be- 
lief in the supernatural is almost a part of the 
every day conversation of dwellers in the Seven 
Mountains; voices are lowered slightly when it 
is discussed, but it is regarded as accepted fact. 
Perhaps it will be by everyone everywhere a 
hundred years hence. 

Science is confirming belief in ghosts; their 
position as part of our national life grows 
stronger every year. Belated travelers from 
Abundance at the north side of the gap invar- 
iably saw the lights ; loving couples straying too 


far up the road after church would see them; 
boys and girls out on Hallowe’en larks prided 
themselves on their bravery to take a “look;” 
the old folks to confirm their early faith wan- 
dered up that way after nightfall at regular in- 
tervals. The ghostly manifestations consisted of 
two lights, like the uncertain yellow and blue 
centered fiame of tallow candles, which came out 
of the side doors, one from each end of the house 
at a little before midnight, and ascended as if by 
invisible ladders, to the roof. They remained 
motionless for several minutes, one at each end 
of the roof, as if resting against the giant chim- 
neys. Then they would advance towards one 
another, flickering and swaying, as if in com- 
bat ; this would continue for a minute until one 
would go out; the other remained burning a 
minute, then extinguished. A traveler timed the 
proceedings as six minutes from the first ap- 
pearance of the lights until the last one was 
extinguished. When the tavern was occupied, 
there were stories of divers rappings and mean- 
ings, of cold draughts of air, of closed doors open- 
ing unexpectedly and the like. 


Over the mirror back of the bar was the 
mounted head of a black wolf, said to be that 
of the last of its kind ever killed in the Seven 
Mountains. Its glass eyes grew alive towards 
the hour of midnight. Sleepless visitors some* 
times encountered the beast on the stairs. A 
fat man, hunting for the upper porch to get a 
breath of air one hot August night, met it in 
the hallway, becoming so frightened that he fell 
downstairs, breaking both his legs, and dying 
shortly afterwards. From that time on his bare 
feet could be heard every night on the oilcloth 
floors chasing the wolf. But these were only 
minor spooks ; presumably they faded away 
when the hotel was closed. 

The ghostly lights remained; they even grew 
brighter with the passing years. A strange part 
of it all was that nobody feared the lights ; they 
were as much a part of the town’s life as the 
arrival of the mail train from Montandon, or 
the rising of the moon from behind Mount 
Petersburg. The story is told by many residents 
of Indianville; although the old men who were 
alive at the time the “ghostly lights” began are 
all resting beneath tiny American flags on the 



THE OLD ACADEMY 





hill ; it came direct from their lips and is 
singularly free of variations. It is a ghost story 
first-hand. Most such tales begin by “I knew a 
person who heard someone say;^’ in this case 
the haunted tavern is the best answer to 
doubters. 

It appears that seventy-five years ago Jake 
Stackhouse and his circus were well known in 
the Seven Mountains, and far into western 
Pennsylvania as well. It was a ‘‘one-horse’’ 
affair, judged by modern standards, but was the 
marvel of its day. Stackhouse was a middle- 
aged German, hard-fisted, selfish, mean, but he 
possessed the faculty of amusing — or fooling, the 
easily satisfied public. The outfit consisted of 
three wagons, gaudily painted, the first one 
hauled by two Conestoga stallions, a white pony 
and an elk, harnessed abreast. The elk, a native 
of the Seven Mountains, had been captured as a 
calf ; its mother had been killed. Like the wolf 
which years later graced the barroom of the Last 
Chief, it was the last of its species. The elks 
lingered longer in the Black Forest and at the 
headwaters of Bennett’s Branch of the Sinnema- 
honing than in the Seven Mountains, — ^but their 


name lives on in the numerous Elk Creeks which 
percolate through the southerly valleys. 

Jake Stackhouse ^s captive elk, to be exact, 
was caught in the mountains south of Tylers- 
ville. It had been driven to bay on elk rocks 
with its parents after a long chase by a pack of 
hounds. The elk rocks, which were plentiful in 
the forests, were strongholds for these animals, 
where they retreated to fight off wolves and 
other enemies. The poor, browbeaten animal, 
with its rangy horns and protruding ribs, had 
a habit of looking people in the eyes ; the glances 
from those dark brown, liquid orbs lingered in 
the memories of the most callous ; yet no one at- 
tempted to buy the wretched creature its 
freedom. 

The other wagons, also garishly painted, were 
drawn by calico horses, miscalled by the show? 
men Arabians, which were then novelties in 
the east. The trained dogs which were tied to 
the frames of the vehicles, trotted contentedly 
underneath. The elk was trained to dance on 
the bottom of a bucket, the pony stood on his 
hind feet, the spotted horses and dogs performed 
tricks; every person connected with the show 


was a performer. Stackhouse had a wife, a 
good looking, black-haired woman much younger 
than himself. Many stories were told about 
her, that she had Indian blood, that she had 
been the wife of another man. Divorces were 
looked upon with holy horror in the Seven 
Mountains; it was hinted that this was a di- 
vorced woman. 

When the tent was pitched, Jake, who had 
been connected with a circus in the old country, 
acted as ringmaster. He wore a mustache, the 
only man in the region who had one at that 
time; it caused many to say that this was 
sure proof of his being a hlack leg. His wife 
sold the tickets, and yokels often complained of 
being short-changed. The circus was not a 
popular institution in the mountains, but it 
was patronized because it offered something dif- 
ferent from the humdrum life of the wilderness. 
It was the desire of folks to do something which 
the preachers told them was wrong. 

One beautiful afternoon in late August, in 
the height of the golden hour, when every leaf 
and twig was clearly outlined, Jake and his 
circus emerged from the shadowy, cool depths 


of Indianville Gap. There was a flat or common 
directly across the public road from the Last 
Chief Tavern, where gypsies and circuses us- 
ually located; it stretched clear to the hank of 
Indian Run. It was pastured by half the cows 
in the village until it was so smooth that the 
weazened hemlock stumps stood up like minia- 
ture church spires; the tall mulleins and milk- 
weeds resembled little trees. It was an ideal 
spot for an encampment ; it had been big enough 
to hold the manaeuvres of the local military 
company at their semi-yearly drills. As soon 
as the wagons were driven on the green, Jake 
had the horses unharnessed and picketed, and 
they were soon munching away contentedly. 
The elk was teathered to a slight wisp of a white 
pine by the fence, and amused himself rolling his 
brown eyes at the small boys who flocked to ad- 
mire him. Jake’s wife and a couple of other 
women became busily engaged cooking supper; 
a red Are sent up a blue tail of smoke in true 
gypsy fashion. The showman ordered that the 
tent must go up before anyone would get any 
supper, so that clowns, tumblers, glass-eaters and 


mountebanks generally fell-to the task with a 
will. 

The crisp, ozone laden air of the gap had made 
everybody ravenously hungry. There was to be 
no performance that night, but the showman had 
his own ideas about getting things in readiness. 
It was pitchy dark before supper was served, but 
the circus was ready for the next afternoon ^s 
exhibition. On account of scanty lights and 
difficulty of travel for the patrons after dark, 
shows were always given by daylight. After 
supper Jake and his motley crew adjourned 
across the road to the public-house. They felt 
themselves entitled to a few drinks of Fergu- 
son’s Valley whiskey. 

The barroom was a plain affair compared to 
the mirrors and carvings of its later days. In- 
stead of the looking-glass back of the bar, there 
was a row of walnut shelves, on which stood 
curious old-fashioned “Black Betties,” jugs, 
flasks and some shells. Above them was nailed a 
wide spreading set of elk horns. Landlord McCay 
greeted the showman effusively; he would make 
business lively during the next twenty-four 


hours. They always commented on the elk 
horns above the bar. 

“They are the horns of your elk’s daddy,” 
the landlord would repeat proudly. “Mike 
Earner killed him and his mate, and roped the 
one you have, — ^he was a little calf at the time. 
He gave me the horns himself, a fine young man 
is Mike Earner. I heard tell that he killed three 
panthers in the east end of Sugar Valley last 
winter ; few hunters can beat him. ’ ’ 

Talk like this stimulated business in the bar- 
room, and added a halo of romance about the 
circus. Mountaineers came in to see the pro- 
prietor of the show, and by ten o’clock the low- 
roofed room was crowded to suffocation. Jake 
Stackhouse had taken too many drinks to be 
good for him, and he leaned against the crude 
wooden bar unsteadily, his tongue running like 
a “clapper.” Usually when he drank he got in 
an ugly humor, but he always had to be pro- 
voked over something. When in his cups he 
beat his horses and dogs, and sometimes struck 
his wife. He had been in many barroom brawls, 
and once an Indiana county trapper stabbed him 
through the left arm. He had the proverbial 


IN THE SEVEN MOUNTAIN" 37 ■ 

chip on his shoulder this evening, only no one 
cared to knock it off. 

Shortly after ten-thirty the narrow door 
opened and a big lean man, with a big unshaven 
face, entered. He had been drinking, and like 
the showman, looked ready for a fight. Jake 
looked around as he came in, recognizing him 
instantly. Of all persons to meet this night ; this 
was Lewis Miller, his wife^s former husband. 

Since the woman had eloped with the show- 
man fifteen years before, her first husband had 
been going “down hill.” He had been a re- 
spectable carpenter in Frankstown, but had 
taken to drink, in hopes of forgetting his great 
sorrow. He could not keep a position, and be- 
came a wanderer in the mountains. As he had 
some proficiency as a wood carver, he used it to 
make elaborately decorated canes, which he sold 
or exchanged for board and lodging. It was the 
year of a presidential campaign, and he carried 
a recently finished hickory stick adorned with 
the head of Andrew Jackson. The two men 
glared at one another, like angry wolves. The 
crowd soon understood the situation, passing 


the story from, man to man, and watching in 
breathless excitement. 

Miller of the two was the least prosperous, the 
most desperate, the most long-suffering. His 
chance had come to even matters. Suddenly 
raising the heavy walking stick, he brought it 
down with a thud on the showman’s head. Al- 
though he wore a felt hat, the victim reeled, and 
would have fallen to the floor had not some of 
the bystanders caught him by the arms. When 
he recovered his senses, he was full of fight, and 
sought to spring at his enemy. Landlord Mc- 
Cay pinioned his arms behind him whispering in 
his ears that he had always run a respectable 
place ; if he wished to fight he could go outside. 
Brawling was offensive to his Scotch-Irish 
probity. Before the showman left the barroom 
one of Miller’s supporters came over telling him 
that the wood carver wished to challenge him to 
a duel, to he fought to a finish at midnight. 
Stackhouse was satisfied to fight; as challenged 
party, he would have the right of choosing the 
weapons. Miller had gone outside ; the showman 
quickly followed into the darkness. On the 
front steps he informed the henchman that he 


accepted Miller’s challenge; he would fight him 
with case-knives on the roof of the hotel at 
twelve o’clock. 

The landlord little suspected what was “in 
the air;” it was past eleven o’clock, the official 
closing time, and he hurried the other customers 
into the yard, barring the doors. Miller’s sec- 
onds wondered how they could get to the roof 
without arousing the landlord; it almost caused 
a hitch in the proceedings. But the showman 
had noticed a tall ladder leaning against an old 
pear tree in a corner of the yard. He pointed it 
out to his adversary’s seconds, who quietly 
placed it against the wall. Miller ascended it, 
with a lighted candle in his mouth, and took his 
place astride the ridge-pole, leaning against one 
of the ponderous chimneys. Stackhouse’s sec- 
onds carried the ladder to the other end of the 
house, and he ascended it, with flickering candle 
in his mouth, taking his place astride the ridge, 
and leaning against the other chimney. As there 
was no one among the motley half-intoxicated 
crowd who would be suitable to both combatants 
as referee, or to give the signal to begin the 
duel, a novel scheme was devised. When the two 


IN “ ic^ NT> 


men had taken their places on the roof their 
seconds were to knock loudly on the front door 
of the hotel. When the landlord would come to 
the door to find out what was wrong they were 
to tell him that the showman and Miller were 
about to begin a fight on the roof. Naturally the 
landlord would run out in the yard and shout to 
them to come down; this was to be the signal 
to begin hostilities. 

The seconds hammered on the door, and in a 
minute the proprietor in his nightshirt and cap 
appeared, demanding to know the cause of the 
disturbance. The men told him what was about 
to happen on the roof. McCay, thinking that 
the seconds were genuinely anxious to prevent a 
duel, bounded out into the. yard in his bare feet. 
He yelled to the duellists to get off his roof at 
once. The signal having been given, the men 
moved towards one another. Miller was far the 
quicker of the two; his intoxication had been 
earlier in the evening; it was pretty well worn 
away. Before the showman could poise his knife 
the deserted husband plunged his blade up to the 
hilt in his heart. It was over so quickly 
that the corpse of the victim, with the candle 


IN THE SE\^N MOUNTAINS 


S75 


still sticking between his teeth, was lying 
in the grass in front of the landlord, before he 
fully grasped what had happened. When the 
victim’s circus employees came to their senses, 
they looked to see what had become of Miller. He 
had slid down the rear slope of the roof, gotten 
on the porch roof, and from there dropped to 
the ground, escaping into the trackless forests. 
The excitement aroused the dead showman’s 
wife. She came across the road, and knelt by her 
husband’s body. Those who saw her thought she 
took his demise rather cooly. 

Stackhouse wore a red plush vest at the time of 
his death; the widow had it made into a bodice 
which she wore for many years. During the 
eventful moments the elk escaped, but it was 
eventually restored to the widow, who sold it to 
another wandering circus. Lewis Miller was 
never captured by the authorities, though it is 
doubtful if they made a systematic effort to find 
him. Public sympathy ran with the murderer; 
he had been wronged; the victim was a for- 
eigner. As he was already practically demented 
from his sorrows, no jury would have convicted 
him. But he never returned to civilization, liv- 


ing for fifteen years in a cave not far from Det- 
wiler^s Hollow. As he grew older he was called 
“the wild man.^^ He certainly looked it with 
his unkempt beard, bloodshot eyes, and tattered 
raiment. In the hot weather he went about 
scantily clad, frightening travelers, berry- 
pickers and children. He was the bugaboo of 
every child in the Seven Mountains for genera- 
tions. A few faithful friends knew his where- 
abouts and brought him provisions. On one 
occasion some berry-pickers saw him devouring 
a live rabbit. He also subsisted to a considerable 
extent on berries, nuts and roots. Tales of his 
fantastic appearance and conduct are numerous 
in all the country adjacent to the Seven Moun- 
tains. He lived to be nearly sixty years of age ; 
his friends eventually found him dead, prob- 
ably from exposure, within his cave in the rocks. 
He was brought to Indiaiiville and buried in the 
juniper shaded graveyard on the hill. Many fol- 
lowed his body to the tomb. The night of his 
funeral the ghostly lights on the hotel roof were 
noticed for the first time by some young men who 
were at the creek gigging for eels. They com- 


municated it to their elders and soon the story 
was known to everyone in Indianville. 

The landlord at the time of the duel, McCay, 
was long since dead, and had been succeeded by 
a man named Fleck. The new landlord noticed 
the lights, but accepted them as one of the events 
of life. Guests offered no objections until after 
the new hotels were built, when they suddenly 
began to show a dislike for ghostly surroundings. 
The older generation remained loyal to the Last 
Chief, but as they died off, patronage dwindled 
to almost nothing. Landlord Fleck passed away 
in the spring of 1892, and no one appeared will- 
ing to renew the license. The house was aband- 
oned to the ghosts, who have doubtless held high 
revels there ever since. Now it is rumored that 
the ancient snuff factory, once the pride of In- 
dianville, is to be rebuilt on the foundations 
of the ancient hostelry, and if this comes to 
pass, the ghostly lights will shine for the last 
time. With gleaming knives the two enemies 
will be wafted to some distant sphere to right 
the wrong that wrecked the lives of both. Mean- 
while the creek bubbles on, the dark pines loom 
as of yore, the lonely street is just as deserted. 





■A ; V IS ' I m; 


378 IN THE SEVEN MOUNTAINS 


As the midnight hour draws near, the wavering 
candles of the ghostly duellists mount to the 
ridge pole, to wait a moment before they advance 
towards one another, like the collision of two 
meteors. 



1 ' 


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I 


} 




THE OLD FORT. 

(The Story of an Early French Enterprise.) 

HEN William Penn ascended 
the West Branch of the Sus- 
quehanna as far as the Cherry 
Tree, in 1700, he was particu- 
larly interested by the sight 
of a French fort and furnace 
at the mouth of Wolf Run, not 
far from the present town of 
Muncy. He had his flotilla of canoes stopped 
at the settlement, making the acquaintance of 
the garrison. The party was ostensibly com- 
manded by a young French nobleman named 
Baron Boaz de Orison, a nephew of a Parisian 
banker who was often of service to the king. 
The real moving spirit, however, was an older 
man, a French Swiss named Alois Duhain, a 
veteran of many years in the French civil ser- 
vice, who at the fort held the titular rank of 
lieutenant. Silver ore had been discovered in 
the Bald Eagle Mountains across the river, and 

379 









t. ^ 


the great trading company had made a large 
investment to open the industry. Old Duhain 
confided to Penn that young Baron de Orison 
was very wild, which was a cause of considerable 
worry to his wealthy uncle, who was childless, 
and whose heir he was to be. To sober the young 
fellow he had been sent to America and put in 
nominal charge of the silver mining enterprise. 
It had turned out to be a flat failure. 

The Indians who sold the first ores to the 
Frenchmen now refused to bring any more or to 
reveal the whereabouts of the mines. Threats 
to torture them proved futile, as they said that 
they would transfer their allegiance to the Eng- 
lish, who were steadily moving their boundaries 
westward, if ill treated. As the trading com- 
pany’s strict orders were to conciliate the red- 
men, nothing further could be done in this di- 
rection. There was no more ore to be refined, 
efforts had failed to procure a fresh supply, 
even at advanced rates; the young Baron was 
restless and discontented. As Duhain was grow- 
ing old he feared for the safety of his position 
if he allowed the young man to abandon the fort 
and start for Philadelphia. He had tried every 




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scheme imaginable to please his charge ; hunting 
was good but he could not induce him to touch 
a firearm, fishing was excellent, but he would not 
handle a net; there were many Indian girls in 
the neighborhood who were good to look at, but 
he paid no attention to them. 

Penn listened, attentively to this tale of woe, 
encouraging the old man to go into all details. 
The great Quaker was secretly pleased with all 
he heard. It would be only a question of a few 
weeks when his authority over the river would 
he firmly established; if the Wolf Eun enter- 
prise could break up of its own volition, it 
would save the negotiations and expense jof 
their removal through diplomatic agencies. He 
also believed that his friendliness with the In- 
dians would induce them to reveal the secret 
of the silver mines; especially as they had 
threatened to ally themselves with the Quakers, 
if harshly treated by the French. It was all very 
good news, which probably accounted for his 
excessive geniality while the guest of the French- 
men. After resting a night at the fort, and tasting 
for politeness' sake, some real French wine, which 
the young baron had in a specially constructed 




IN 




lOUJTAII' 


cellar, the great peacemaker resumed his journey 
to the Cherry Tree. His negotiations for added 
territory with Connoondaghtoh, King of the 
Susquehannahs, were very successful, which was 
partly due to the presence of a very intelligent 
Indian princess, named Rose-Marie, who had 
been educated by the French in Canada, and 
who superseded the itinerant interpreters who 
accompanied the party. 

On the eastward voyage Penn was anxious to 
travel faster, and he only stopped at Wolf Run 
long enough to shake hands with the officers. 
He could see that the bottle of French wine 
opened on the night of his previous visit had 
been the beginning of a protracted spree ; 
young Baron de Orison looked much the worse 
for wear. As Penn climbed into his canoe the 
youth said to him “May I call to pay my respects 
on you in Philadelphia next month The 
Quaker replied that he would be delighted, but 
he noticed the old civil employe’s face whiten 
during the brief conversation. All the way down 
the river Penn thought of the unfortunate 
young man, wondering if he would have courage 
enough to leave his prison and start for a land 


of social gaieties. Perhaps the old Swiss was 
encouraging him to drink, in order to weaken 
his will power, and handle him more easily. 
Several months passed and the young Baron did 
not put in an appearance. He was gradually 
forgotten, and Penn was too busy to think 
further about the silver mines. The first per- 
manent settlers at Monsey Town discovered the 
abandoned furnace; it was the cause of much 
comment. It is mentioned by the historians of 
the West Branch, Meginness and Gernerd. Very 
little light has been shed on the subject, despite 
its apparent importance. After Penn’s visit the 
history of the spot as a silver mine ceases. Hence- 
forth it becomes solely the story of the unhappy 
young Frenchman, Baron de Grison. 

The revelry which had begun so harmlessly by 
the opening of a bottle of wine in honor of the 
Quaker visitor had been prolonged into a spree 
which lasted until the last bottle was emptied. 
Perhaps Penn was right in supposing that the 
old Swiss was encouraging the insobriety; one 
thing was certain, as long as the Baron drank 
he uttered no threats about leaving for Philadel- 
phia. If the rich uncle could have seen his 


nephew’s wretched condition in the wilderness 
he would have much preferred his ruining his 
physical life in the gilded vices of the Court. 
When the last bottle was thrown into the river 
the young man ’s senses became very alert. Where 
would he get more; he would either go after it 
himself to Philadelphia, or have it brought to 
him from somewhere. He must have it quickly. 
He became ill-natured, and at times violent, as 
his unsatisfied thirst burned within him. He said 
that he was dying of ennui, he must go some- 
where for a change of scene and sound. He was 
tired of looking at mountains, tired of listening 
to the mournful crying of the loons on the river 
at night. He might remain longer if wine was 
brought him, but it must come soon. 

Old Duhain was at his wits end. There was no 
place nearer than Philadelphia to send for a 
fresh supply; he knew that the Indians made 
several kinds of alcoholic decoctions, but they 
were vile-tasting, and would not please the 
youthful nobleman’s cultivated taste. The In- 
dians shunned the fort ever since they had been 
threatened with torture, it would be difficult to 
get them to part with any of their spirits. Sev- 


eral days of bickering went by, but the situation 
was becoming critical. At length the baron 
ordered his servants to prepare his belongings 
for a long journey. This was a sure sign that he 
intended starting for civilization. The old 
Swiss realized that it would be useless to plead 
with him further; he was resigned to losing his 
charge, his billet, everything. If the old man 
could have found something to drink he would 
have imbibed to drown his sorrows. He found a 
phial of laudanum, but the dose was not enough 
to ease the misery which oppressed him. 

On a bright, crisp morning, when the maples 
were gold and scarlet, the baron had his canoe 
brought to the wharf. He was having his effects 
packed in it, when a strange pirogue, occupied 
by three Indians was seen coming down the 
stream. Old Duhain hailed them, as was his 
custom, and they replied to the signal by heading 
their boat towards the shore. The old man was 
delighted; the arrival of these strangers might 
divert the baron to such an extent that he would 
postpone his departure for another day. The In- 
dians, who were stalwart braves, said that they 
had come all the way from the headwaters of 


the Genessee. They had made a portage at the 
summit across to the waters of Little Kettle 
Creek, and from thence into the Susquehanna. 
They were Senecas, and had no knowledge of 
Duhain’s recent unpleasantness with the local 
Indians. They recognized the fort as being a 
French institution, which stood for friendliness. 
They explained that they were on their way to a 
famous Indian distillery, situated in the Bare 
Meadows, near the sources of Spring Creek and 
Sinking Creek, where, according to a formula 
given him by an Irish Quaker, an old chief named 
Tengettik was making a life-giving liquor from 
potatoes. On account of being at war with the 
tries occupying the territory along Bald Eagle 
Creek, the Indians intended reaching the Seven 
Mountains country by way of the Karoondinah 
or Penn’s Creek, of which Sinking Creek was a 
tributary, and would take them directly to the 
distillery. This was an even easier route than 
through the Bald Eagle Valley. 

The young baron had come down to the land- 
ing to see the savages, and was amazed at what 
they had to say. Here he had been suffering un- 
told tortures from his thirst, with a distillery 


only about fifty miles away. Before he had a 
chance to open his mouth, old Duhain spoke out. 
Addressing the most intelligent looking Indian 
he said, ^‘if we give you wampum, and in addi- 
tion pay you for your time and trouble, will you 
bring us back a supply of whiskey?” The 
thirsty baron did not give the Indian time to 
answer. 

“My friends,” he said, addressing the Indians, 
“if you will allow me, I wifi, accompany you to 
the distillery. In order to compensate you for 
your company I will buy you all the whiskey you 
require, the trip will not cost you a single stick 
of wampum.” 

The savages seemed pleased at this prospect, 
and said that they would gladly take him with 
them. At this point old Duhain was heard again. 
He said that of course the young man, being a 
personage of high rank, must have his two ser- 
vants accompany him. The Indians did not seem 
to object to this, but the baron replied firmly 
that he would not take the servants along. 

“My Indian friends are sufficient bodyguard,” 
was the way he settled the matter. He ordered 
the servants to remove much of the baggage from 


his canoe, and asked one of the Indians to paddle 
it for him. The sight of the unloading of the 
baggage allayed old Duhain^s most serious 
fears. He had rightly suspected that if the baron 
went to Philadelphia he would never return; 
the loading of all his belongings gave color to 
this. Now he was starting away with only a 
small supply of clothing; it meant that he was 
coming back. He could understand now that if 
his charge had plenty of stimulants on hand he 
would remain in the wilderness as long as his 
uncle wished. The old man saw visions of his 
easy berth on Wolf Run extending several years 
into the future. 

The two canoes started down stream. The 
first was occupied by two Indians, the second 
by the baron and the other Indian as rower. 
Old Duhain was a very happy man ; it looked as 
if things were coming his way. The young 
Frenchman enjoyed the voyage very much. 
There had been some heavy rains, so that their 
canoes traveled from the Karoondinah into Sink- 
ing Creek without any trouble. The scenery was 
wild and picturesque. There was much game 
along the way, and the expectant travelers had 


meals of wild turkeys, heath-hens and fawns 
which could be only described as banquets. The 
flesh of the heath-hen appealed especially to 
the young Frenchman. It reminded him greatly 
of that of the grande outarde, which his father 
used to kill on the arid plains of Champagne. 
This heath-hen is now extinct, but it was once so 
plentiful that it was fed to the slaves in Ken- 
tucky who called it “nigger bird.^^ 

When they came in sight of the distillery they 
found that it occupied the centre of a formidable 
encampment. It stood on a high hill, with the 
waters of the two creeks. Sinking and Spring, 
running from copious fountains on either side of 
it. All the timber had been burned off the entire 
mountain, which had been planted thickly with 
potatoes and Indian corn. The distillery, which 
was as big as any chief ^s council house, was built 
of logs ; on the roof was a tall pole made of white 
pine, from which floated an Indian banner of 
many colors. This was hoisted on lodge houses 
occupied by chiefs of distinction. The thirsty 
pilgrims had left their canoes at the furthest 
navigable point, and their climb up the steep 
hillside further aroused their desire for liquid 


refreshments. It was a wonderful sight, this 
promised land, and to their parched imaginations 
stillhonse, banner and encampment seemed o^f 
gigantic proportions. 

The leading pilgrim handed a beautifully in- 
laid calumet or peace pipe, as a mark of good 
will, to the doorkeeper of the distillery, and 
asked to be presented to the celebrated proprie- 
tor. Tengettik, a weasened mite o-f humanity, 
advanced to meet the visitors. His face wore a 
broad smile, especially when he noticed that a 
white man was in the party. He thanked the 
strangers for their gift, and invited them to feel 
at home. 

“I have many visitors at present,’'^ he said 
proudly. “The famous chief Connoondaghtah 
is here with his beautiful daughter Rose-Marie. 
These Indians recently had the honor of enter- 
taining the great white father William Penn at 
their encampment at the Cherry Tree. 

This was interesting information for the baron, 
as he had entertained the same white father him- 
self, and he had been the innocent cause of his 
prolonged spree. “ I recently entertained Father 
Penn,^’ said the young baron, “^he is a very 


liberal-minded gentleman. ’ ' Old Tengettik 
smiled more broadly, saying, ^‘come into my 
council room and become acquainted with Con- 
noondaghtah and his daughter/’ 

The party of four followed the old distiller 
through a long gallery filled with red earthen- 
pots in which the liquor was being distilled, to a 
spacious apartment, the walls of which were hung 
with the skins of wild animals. Seated on the 
floor, wrapped in the same grass-green blanket 
which had so captivated the sedate Penn, was 
the beautiful Indian girl, Rose-Marie. By her 
side sat her father, a huge lean warrior, with a 
big head, small eyes and an enormous predica- 
cious nose. 

Rose-Marie, seeing that one of the newcomers 
was a European, spoke to him in French, before 
the distiller had time to make the introductions. 
The Frenchman replied in his native language, 
bowing profoundly. The girl had liked his ap- 
pearance from the first, but when Tengettik ex- 
plained that he was a nobleman, the commander 
of the fort at Wolf Run, her manner became more 
engaging. Nothing succeeds like prestige. Yet 
he was an attractive young fellow, even if 


stripped of rank and power. He was of medium 
height, erect and slender, with the golden brown 
hair, keen blue eyes and clear cut features so 
characteristic of natives of the northeasterly 
parts of France. 

Rose-Marie was slightly below the average in 
size, but wonderfully formed. Her black hair 
was soft and inclined to curl, her eyes were wide 
apart, her nose short but with a haughty arch to 
the bridge. She put much vermillion on her lips, 
according to an Indian custom later very popular 
on the European continent. Her complexion was 
not dark, and her French pronunciation so good, 
that it was small wonder there was a persistent ru- 
mor of her having European blood in her veins. 
She invited the young baron to sit beside her, 
and they were soon engaged in an intimate con- 
versation. Meanwhile the old distiller had a ser- 
vant bring in a deerskin filled with the oldest 
whiskey, which was poured into gourds, and 
handed around among the guests. It is an un- 
pleasant thing to say, but all, including Rose- 
Marie, partook too freely of the spirits. They 
were like one family by nightfall. The beautiful 
girl was lying in the Frenchman's arms, and he 


was pouring stories of his great love for her, of 
his desire to have her marry him, into her shell- 
like ears. The girl was anxious to marry him, 
and they made and unmade many plans in their 
maudlin state as to the place and date for the 
ceremony. The next day, after they had slept off 
their over-indulgence, more potato whiskey was 
consumed. All were again put to sleep by it. 
This kind of thing continued for several days, 
until the Seneca Indians said that they must be 
returning homeward. 

Rose-Marie broke the news of her engagement 
to her father. He was pleased, but he whispered 
to her ‘ ‘ what will Gischigu say ? ’ ^ This was the 
name of a fierce and vengeful warrior who had 
loved Rose-Marie for several years. She had 
encouraged his attentions at first, and then re- 
jected him. He had threatened to kill her if she 
ever married anyone else. He was horribly 
jealous and often followed her in the forest. 

“I donT care what he will say,” said the girl 
defiantly. But later in the day she thought the 
matter over, concluding that it would be wisest 
not to return to the Cherry Tree with her in- 
tended husband; it was too near Gischigu ’s baili- 


wick. She would go with the baron to Wolf Run, 
and marry there. After that she did not care. 
She confided this to her father, who commended 
her on another exhibition of her usual good judg- 
ment. He said he would go with her to the fort, 
and give her away in marriage. He selected a 
bodyguard of a dozen picked braves to accom- 
pany them. Rose-Marie informed her lover that 
she would prefer to be married at Wolf Run. 
This pleased him, as he dreaded the tedious over- 
land journey to the Cherry Tree. He had gotten 
his fill of spirits ; he was to have a beautiful wife, 
he wanted the marriage accomplished as soon as 
possible. Accordingly they bade goodbye to the 
distiller, who gave them all as many deerskins 
filled with whiskey as they could carry, refusing 
any payment. 

The departing band consisted of the baron 
and his bride-to-be, the three Senecas, Chief Con- 
noondaghtah and his twelve bodyguards. They 
found Little Kingfisher, the celebrated canoe build- 
er whojived near the Rising Springs, and pur- 
chased enough boats from him to convey them all 
to Wolf Run. The trip promised to be a memor- 
able one as everybody was happy. Wide as was 


Penn ’s Creek, hemlock boughs completely arched 
it. They swept along with the current, sing- 
ing songs, as if none of them had a care in 
the world. All went well until they reached a 
point a short distance below the confluence of 
Pine and Penn’s Creeks, at the base of what is 
now called Volkenburg Mountain. Without a 
warning of any kind, a bowman concealed some- 
where on the side of the mountain sent an arrow 
on its silent way, which struck the gay young 
baron, piercing his jugular vein. With a cry of 
despair and pain, he fell forward against his 
sweetheart, death ensuing a minute after the 
canoe was beached. He would have died even if 
not hit in a vital spot as the arrow point was 
poisoned. As the vengeful Gischigu was noted 
for his skillful archery, Connoondaghtah and 
Rose-Marie instantly suspected him. He had 
evidently followed the girl from the Cherry 
Tree. In some way he had learned of her im- 
pending marriage, and had evidently gone on 
ahead, concealing himself at a place where he 
knew the canoes would pass. 

The happy travelers were now plunged into 
the deepest gloom and fear. They knew that if 


they proceeded up the Susquehanna minus Baron 
de Grison, they would he accused of his murder 
by the garrison at Wolf Run. They would doubt- 
less get into trouble anyhow, conceal the mis- 
fortune as they may. The Senecas held a Coun- 
cil with Connoondaghtah and his daughter, the 
result of which was that they decided to abandon 
their canoes and cargo of whiskey, and proceed 
overland to the Cherry Tree. The Senecas were 
disguised as bodyguards of the King of the Sus- 
quehannahs, so that they could pass unmolested 
through the hostile region in the Bald Eagle 
Valley. The canoes and whiskey were sunk in the 
creek; the body of the young Frenchman was 
wrapped in his sweetheart’s grass-green blanket 
and interred on a little knoll near where 
he breathed his last. At the head of the mound 
Rose-Marie placed a tiny cross of aspen twigs, 
bound together by a heavy lock of her dark 
hair. At the fort at the mouth of Wolf Run old 
Alois Duhain waited and waited. When no tidings 
of the missing young man were heard in six 
months, he concluded that he had changed his 
mind and struck out for Philadelphia. The old 
man abandoned the furnace and fortifications. 




II TY Jj 


2y7 


and started for Lake Erie. At the French head- 
quarters nothing was known of the baron; thus 
ingloriously ended the mining operations at 
Wolf Run. 


XXI. 


AN EPISODE OF ’65 FLOOD. 

(A Little Romance of Success.) 

NEW and spacious mansion of 
cement, painted white, with 
colonial pillars, was being 
erected on the hill overlooking 
Indianville. It was the most 
up-to-date and striking look- 
ing structure, not only in the 
valley, but in the entire re- 
gion of the Seven Mountains. When completed 
it was to be occupied by Darius Cammerdiner, 
the Pittsburg coke millionaire. This wealthy 
man who had been born in Indianville, was 
early left an orphan, and worked for several 
years as a farmhand in the valley and across the 
mountains by the Susquehanna. He had drifted 
to the Smoky City, amassed a fortune, married, 
and then decided to spend his summers amid the 
scenes of his childhood in preference to Sewick- 
ley or Cape May. 



398 


The natives who were proud to welcome him 
back to their midst, were surprised to see how 
well he remembered everyone. He had not 
changed much since he went away a sandy- 
haired Dutch boy; he was only bigger and 
stouter, but he was as good natured as ever. The 
county papers published cuts of the mansion as 
it would look when finished ; it seemed to auger a 
renaissance for the little town which contained 
but one industry, a small saw mill, since the 
snuff factory had burned down fifty years be- 
fore. To be exact, it had been destroyed the year 
before Darius Cammerdiner ’s birth. Now on top 
of his return, it was reported that the snuff fac- 
tory was to be rebuilt, and a creamery as well. 
Truly golden days for Indianville. But what 
interested the villagers mostly was the romance 
connected with the life of the rich man. He had 
married when well past thirty, after his fortune 
was well established, to the daughter of the 
wealthy landowner for whom he had worked as 
stable boy in the beginning of his teens. The 
wife, who took an active interest in the con- 
struction and beautifying of the new estate, 
seemed to be devoted to her successful husband ; 


it was evidently a love match. The couple had 
two small children, so small that the residents 
of Indianville, who invariably married early, 
said that the ceremony had been performed ten 
years too late. 

On winter evenings the life story of the great 
millionaire was told and re-told around the huge 
whitewashed stove in the general store. It was 
of far more absorbing interest than the rebuild- 
ing of the snuff factory, of the projected cream- 
ery. According to the general statement, Darius 
Cammerdiner was the son of very poor parents ; 
they had lived at the log cabin furthest up the 
road, next door to the Last Chief Tavern. The 
father, Jehiel Cammerdiner, once worked in the 
snuff factory, — old Jonas Cleon had worked be- 
side him, but he had not done much after it 
burned down. He had become a hunter, but got 
one of his feet caught in a bear trap, becoming 
a cripple. He drank a lot, dying when Darius 
was five years old. The mother had struggled 
on a few years longer, sewing and eventually 
taking in washing. She died of throat trouble 
when less than thirty years of age. Darius, the 
eight-year-old orphan, was adopted by an elderly 


spinster. This estimable lady died when he was 
thirteen, turning him adrift again. The promi- 
nent McClintock family who lived at “Swat- 
ragh,’’ a brick manse by the Susquehanna, sent 
for the boy, and he tended ’Squire McClintock ’s 
pet Hambletonian stallion for a time. He re- 
mained at “Swatragh” until after the big flood 
on St. Patrick’s Day, 1865. 

After that his whereabouts were undiscover- 
able until his former schoolmaster at Indianville, 
during a visit to Pittsburg, recognized his name 
and called to see him in his magnificent suite of 
offices in the Frick building. The wealthy man, 
surrounded by secretaries and stenographers had 
received his aged teacher cordially, and the talk 
drifted back to old Indianville. Cammerdiner 
had expressed a desire to see the place, which he 
had not revisited since he left it, a boy of thir- 
teen in ’Squire McClintock ’s buggy. He told 
the teacher that he had married the ’Squire’s 
daughter, which further proved his upward 
course in the world. He promised to visit In- 
dianville the following summer, to see if his 
early impressions would be verified. True to his 
word, he wrote to the old schoolmaster that he 


IN THE SEVEN MOUNTAINS 


was coming, and one hot July evening he stepped 
off the train from the west. 

He expressed regret that the Last Chief Tav- 
ern was closed; it was so near his birthplace; 
and put up at one of the newer hotels. Accom- 
panied by the teacher, he drove around the val- 
ley all the next day in a livery turnout. He ex- 
pressed great delight at everything he saw. When 
he departed the next morning he said he would 
return in a month, bringing his wife. Again he 
was true to his word, and returned to Indian- 
ville with his lifers companion. They spent a 
day driving about, passing several hours on the 
round hill at the base of the Petersburg, which is 
backed by such a grand grove of volunteer sap- 
pines. It commanded a splendid view of the 
majestic Seven Mountains; it would be an ideal 
spot for a summer home. Several sweet springs 
ran out of the sandy soil below the young pines, 
which grew as thick as a '‘black forest. It was 
not long after this that the Pittsburg millionaire 
returned a third time to Indianville. This time 
he took title to five hundred acres of land, in- 
cluding the round hill and the stand of white 
pines. After that ho came back every week. 


usually accompanied by architects or builders. 
By the first of October ground was broken for 
the new home, the greatest event that had ever 
happened in the remote little hamlet. 

One winter evening while Cammerdiner was 
sitting in a corner of the hotel lobby, puffing at 
his W. H. Mayer cigar, conversing with his old 
friend, the schoolmaster, he told the story of his 
life from the time he first left Indianville; it 
sounded like a romance of success. ’Squire 
McClintock, the master of ‘‘Swatragh” had put 
him at heavy work for a boy of his years, but 
he had taken to every task cheerfully. There 
were several boys, Pennsylvania German lads, 
from the valleys like himself, engaged in similar 
capacities, but he could always accomplish twice 
what they did. Several times the dignified land- 
owner singled him out and praised him. This 
did not turn his head; it only made him work 
the harder. The ’Squire had a daughter named 
Ernestine, a girl a couple of years younger than 
the German chore boy ; she was very pretty and 
winsome, was a general favorite. She often 
accompanied her father during his drives about 
the estate, invariably speaking pleasantly to 


the hired help. She always had a smile for 
Darius, who sometimes handed her small bou- 
quets of wildflowers. During the two and a half 
years he worked on the place, he got to know her 
as well as their dilferent stations in life would 
allow. She was not at all snobbish or reserved, 
but had the same dignified charm which charac- 
terized her father and mother. Although he was 
a very young boy, Darius secretly loved his high- 
born friend. He was wise enough to bide a time 
when he could express himself ; he was too young 
and too ignoble to make any advances now. Once 
or twice childrens’ parties were given at the big 
house, and the hired boys were admitted. He 
was thus enabled to dance a few times with his 
unacknowledged sweetheart. The other boys 
were much too shy to attempt this, but Darius, 
with an assurance of future success, seemed to be 
perfectly at ease in her society. She was always 
very nice to him, but he had no way of divining 
how much or how little she cared for him. Mat- 
ters drifted along like this until St. Patrick’s 
Day, 1865. This was always a gala day at 
‘ ‘ Swatragh. ’ ’ 


Although the McClintocks were of North of 
Ireland Presbyterian stock, they cherished an 
affection for the Emerald Isle. The interior of 
the manse was decorated with green ribbons and 
an Irish flag hung above the framed lithograph 
of Governor Curtin, in the library. That day 
also happened to be the birthday of little Phoebe 
McAmbley, Ernestine’s most intimate friend. 
She lived half a mile inland from “Swatragh,” 
which manse had been built on the river bank; 
it had been erected in 1808, before the reckless 
cutting of timber had increased the dangers 
from floods. After breakfast the little girl, 
dressed in her widest spreading skirt, and straw- 
berry-box hat, strolled out the lane to spend the 
day with her friend. She carried a tiny um- 
brella, and walked along with all the dignity 
of a grown-up lady. Darius happened to be 
grooming the Hambletonian stallion as she 
passed the barn, and he gazed after her until she 
was hidden among the bare locust trees which 
lined the narrow path. It was a warm day for 
the time of year, and the sun was often obscured 
by dark clouds. The rains of the previous week 
had made the river “bank high,’’ but no further 


rise was anticipated. It seemed that Ernestine 
had barely reached her friend's home when an- 
other heavy rain began. The water literally fell 
in “bnckets-fall/’ the river began rising again. 
After dinner there was a let-up, so the ’Squire 
sent for Darius, and told him to hurry out the 
lane, and tell Ernestine to come home at once. 
He gave him a big umbrella and a great-coat to 
put over her. 

Before the boy reached the McAmbley mansion 
the storm began with redoubled fury ; there were 
several terrific peals of thunder and flashes of 
lightning, the latter shattering several of the 
original white pines which still remained along 
the river bank. It had evidently been raining 
more heavily “up country,” as the river swept 
over its banks and spread out through the fields. 
When the little girl saw the hired boy she said 
that she was sure the storm would stop if she 
waited, but she was anxious to obey her family. 
The McAmbley household urged her to remain, 
but go she would. When the couple had gone 
about a quarter of a mile, they saw the brown 
flood waters sweeping towards them. The choc- 
olate colored tide was frothing white at the 


IN THE SEVEN MOUNTAINS 


407 


edges ; it looked forbidding and dirty, to say the 
least. 

There was a big black walnut tree along 
the lane ; it had wide spreading branches ; to the 
little girl it offered a temporary refuge. The 
stake-and-rider fence ran beside it; it would be 
easy to climb into, there was a temporary refuge 
in the fork. Darius suggested that he help 
Ernestine into this refuge, and then wade 
through the water to the barn, and come after 
her with one of the horses. She demurred at 
first — it was a little way she had — but she let him 
assist her to the point of comfort and safety. 
Then the boy struck out boldly into the seething 
torrent, which was now licking about the butt of 
the tree. The flood had occurred so suddenly 
that neither of the young people could realize 
that it would prove lasting or serious. But the 
water was rising with incredible rapidity. Be- 
fore the boy had gone a hundred yards it was 
up to his armpits, and the driving rain beating 
in his face blinded him. A few saw-logs were 
floating dangerously near, bumping into the 
fences and trees. Ernestine saw the danger, and 
called to Darius to come back at once to the 


sheltering walnut. He realized it would be use- 
less to go further, especially as he could not 
swim. It was lucky that he turned back when 
he did, as the water was up to his neck by the 
time he seized the top rail of the stake-and-rider 
fence and drew himself to safety. He climbed 
into the fork of the big tree, where he sat with 
the little girl, watching the water raising on all 
sides. The manse was obscured from view by 
many old trees, but doubtless the ’Squire had 
already gone out to search for his beloved child. 
Even if he had found a skiff, and was poling 
about in search of her, the rain was so terrific 
that it was impossible to see through it. Coupled 
with this, the skies were as dark as night; it 
looked like the end of the world. 

The water "was now on a level with the top of 
the fence, and was dangerously full of huge logs 
and drift. There was nothing to do but to make 
the best of conditions, to accept a drenching and 
wait for the morrow. Ernestine worried con- 
siderably lest her father would go to the Mc- 
Ambley home, and not finding her there, be 
frightfully worried. She urged Darius to call 
out loudly, which he did, as he had a stout pair 


of lungs. His voice was drowned in the roar of 
the storm. 

Some of the saw-logs moved with consider- 
able swiftness ; they broke off most of the 
slender locust trees which lined the lane at 
the rear of the manse, rhey could hear the logs 
bumping together, or breaking off trees, or push- 
ing over fences ; it was a horrid splitting, bang- 
ing, booming sound; the young people in their 
snug sanctuary shuddered, and drew closer to- 
gether. The atmosphere seemed to be growing 
darker all the time; they looked in vain for a 
light to shine out between the trees from one 
of the upper windows of the manse. It was too 
dark, there was too much rain to enable candle 
light to penetrate the gloom. The roar of the 
flood, and the breaking of trees, amounted to a 
tempest. 

Occasionally portions of sheds, and in several 
instances chicken coops bumped against the 
tree. Perched on the roof of one of these struc- 
tures they could make out a much bedraggled 
Greeley rooster. Darius leaned down to try and 
grab the poor bird, but his reach was not long 
enough. A wild pigeon lit on the tree, not far 


410 


from the young couple. Ernestine said that it 
reminded her of the dove that came to Noah’s 
Ark, which she had read about in her litle blue 
Bible book. They almost smiled at the droll 
conceit. The boy and girl were drenched to the 
skin, yet they remained calm and cheerful 
through it all. Once Darius took Ernestine’s 
little hand to see if it felt cold; she made no 
effort to take it away, he held it tighter. Then 
he managed to put his other arm around her 
waist; she snuggled a little closer to him, and 
soon laid her curly head on his shoulder. With 
such encouragement he knew he could speak 
what had been in his heart so long. Though he 
was only fifteen, hardships and self-reliance had 
given him the poise of a man twice his years. 

He told her that he loved her, to which she 
replied that she loved him ; and proved the truth 
of her statement by kissing his wet cheek twice. 
He said that he realized it would be some years 
before they could marry; but it was lucky they 
were both so young. If she would wait for him 
he would go west, make a fortune, and come back 
and marry her. This would equalize their differ- 
ent positions in the world. She pressed her head 


“ ^ SI V 


more tightly against his shoulder by way of 
answer. He cemented his promise by a closer 
embrace, and several heartfelt kisses. They were 
one in heart and spirit, out there in the flood 
centre. They no longer heard the roar of the 
storm, the bumping together of saw-logs, the 
crash of falling trees and buildings. The dark- 
ness was a cloak of intimacy to their romance. 
They were silent at times, thinking over their 
great joy. At other times the boy broke the 
silence to explain how it would he difficult for 
him to remain on the farm as her lover ; he would 
leave the following week if they got out of their 
trying predicament in safety. 

They were in the tree all night; morning 
dawned a little brighter, the storm had spent 
most of its fury. The river still rose, but with a 
cessation of the rain, rescuers could get about a 
little. As they had feared, the ’Squire and his 
good wife were terribly concerned over the safety 
of Ernestine, and the hired hoy also, as they 
were humane, Christian people. He had tried 
to seek them on foot, and on horseback, but the 
oncoming flood turned him back. He poled about 
all night in a skiff, not daring to go far from the 


manse on account of the drift piles and 
the darkness. At dawn, when the rain abated, 
he had poled to the McAmbley home, where they 
told him that the hired boy had left with little 
Ernestine after dinner the day before. The fond 
parent was in a quandary of fears and hopes; 
either the young people were lost in the storm, 
or had found some sanctuary. The McAmbley 
family urged him to believe that they were ma- 
rooned somewhere, possibly in the fork of a tree, 
that all was well. He went away in his boat, 
gazing anxiously at every tree he passed. About 
nine o’clock he saw the missing pair, looking 
like drowned rats, huddled among the branches 
of the huge walnut. He gave a cry of delight, 
which was answered by the boy and girl who 
saw him at the same moment. He brought his 
boat over to them, and they dropped into it, 
drenched but happy. 

There was much to be told of the recent ad- 
venture, which was related good-naturedly. It 
was a joyous sight when the little girl was re- 
stored to her mother’s arms. The water, which 
was now beginning to recede slowly, was up to 
the level of the second story windows of the 












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manse; it was three feet higher than the mark 
made by the flood of 1847. The ’Squire was so 
delighted over the safety of his child that he 
passed over the loss of the Hambletonian stal- 
lion, and all his other livestock, which had been 
engulfed in the barn while he was out looking 
for his daughter. Darius was highly commended 
for his admirable protection of Ernestine, but 
bore his honors modestly. He remained on the 
estate for a month after the flood, helping to 
bury the drowned livestock, clear away drift 
piles, build fences and get the place ready to 
resume farming. Then he said that he was going 
west to make his way in the world. The ’Squire 
admired his courage, bade him go, but said that 
he parted with such a likely lad with regrets. 
Ernestine was in the carriage which drove him 
to the railway station, and waved her checked 
handkerchief as he boarded the train which con- 
nected for the west. The morning of his de- 
parture he had met her under the grape arbor for 
a good-bye kiss, and she renewed her promise to 
wait for him. 

His career in the west was a checkered one. 
His first work was as a farmhand in Illinois ; he 


became a section hand on the railroad, then a 
freight brakeman. He learned telegraphy, and 
drifted to Ohio. There he secured a situation 
in the freight office of another railway. He re- 
signed to become head bookkeeper for a whole- 
sale firm of coal dealers. He saved a little money 
and invested in coal lands in Western Pennsyl- 
vania. He moved to Pittsburg and opened an 
office. He fell in with many ambitious young 
men ; they made deals together which turned out 
well. He prospered, everything came easy; he 
was nearly a millionaire when less than thirty- 
five years of age. Several times he had been on 
the point of writing, but hestitated until his 
fortune was assured. Meanwhile Ernestine, con- 
fiding in no one, not even in Phoebe McAmbley, 
was waiting patiently at the manse. She moved 
in the best society in the county, she had the 
prestige of beauty and wealth; she had many 
admirers and of course proposals of marriage. 
She turned a deaf ear on all, saying that she 
was going to die an old maid. Her parents urged 
her to marry, but she had the same retort for 
them. She was cheerful and contented; she did 


:t iorr-AJNi> 


not miss masculine society ; she had perfect faith 
in one man. 

Often she wondered why Darius was so silent; 
he might have dropped her a line once in a while ; 
perhaps his struggle was harder than he ex- 
pected; it might he many years before he could 
call himself a success. But her mind had been 
made up that eventful night when they escaped 
from death on the fork of the old walnut tree ; it 
was too momentous an occasion to discard for a 
milder destiny. She would marry a man who 
triedy rather than one who Juid or was. 

One evening her father returned from the post 
office with a bundle of letters. He was growing old 
and little things aroused his curiosity more than 
formerly. He held up an envelope addressed to 
Ernestine; on the upper left hand corner was 
printed “Darius Cammerdiner Coke Co., Pitts- 
burg, Pa.'’ saying, “that's the same name as 
that hired boy we had; he was with you the 
night of the flood in the walnut tree; but this 
one must be a big business man." The girl 
grasped the letter with strange eagerness; she 
tore it open, holding it before the lamp to read. 
The old people looked at her in wonderment. 


“He’s coming here next week,” she gasped. 
“I’m going to marry him; he’s made a great 
success in life.” 

“What do you mean, a man coming to see 
you/^ gasped Mother MeClintock. 

‘ ‘ That ’s what I said, ’ ’ whispered the girl. ‘ ‘ I 
promised Darius Cammerdiner I’d marry him 
when he made a success in life, and he surely 
has.’' 



XXII. 

AT THE GATE OF THE DEAD. 

(A Story of Winegardner Cove.) 

ITHIN almost a stone’s throw 
of the Naginey Cave, with all 
its mystic associations, on the 
crest of the same hill yawns 
the mouth-like sink called 
Winegardner’s Cove. It has 
been a popular resort for the 
curious for years, as it re- 
tains its ice formations during the summer 
months. Beneath the shelving masses of rock 
where the ice is conserved the fissures stretch 

417 






underground to incredible depths. In former 
years the surroundings of the ‘ ‘ cove ^ ^ were much 
more entrancing than at present. Walled in by 
a forest of hemlock and pine, its steep sides 
were overgrown with rare and strange looking 
mosses. Once a buffalo herd, driven from its 
pastures along Honey Creek by rival bands of 
Indian hunters, stampeded, and ran until they 
fell pell mell into the sink. Many of their bones 
are still to be found, wedged in among the crev- 
ices. Most of the timber has now been removed 
from the vicinity, and were it not for a few 
thrifty young white pines and hardwoods, which 
fringe its edges, one could hardly tell its loca- 
tion from the surrounding hill-top field. A 
string of barbed wire was placed around the 
circular opening to prevent cattle from falling 
into it. 

Once a blind mare fell in, and efforts were 
made to lift her out with rope and tackle. She 
struggled so unwisely that it was decided to 
shoot her, and her bones are mingled with those 
of the ancient buffaloes. Several landslides 
have marred the symmetry of the sink ; it is fast 
filling with logs and debris, so that fewer visi- 


tors are apt to go there as the years progress. 
In this manner, time, circular in its movements, 
will restore it to the condition it was in during 
Indian days, shunned by everyone. There was 
no more mysterious and weirdsome spot in the 
entire region of the Seven Mountains than this 
gateway into the realms below. Many legends 
clustered about it, all terrible enough to cause 
the superstitious Indians to keep far away from 
its baleful precincts. When the Machtando or 
Devil repented for a brief time, and visited the 
outer world, he emerged through this opening. 
When he returned to the depths it was by a 
different route, but he carried with him a very 
beautiful Indian maiden named Light of the 
Morning, whose parents never ceased regretting 
her horrible fate. It was said that their ghosts 
came nearer to the edge of this abyss than al- 
most any living person ; they had the courage of 
despair. In Indian days the cove was known 
as the Gate of the Dead. 

Swept into the world below through divers 
caverns, sinks, lost creeks and air-holes, the 
sentences of lost souls were for eternity. But 
they possessed the ability to come to the mouth 


of Winegardner’s sink on clear nights and gaze 
up at the world where they had missed their 
opportunities ; the beautiful world that they had 
failed to appreciate when in the flesh. They 
would look on the grand old trees which hung 
over the chasm, with the stars, and sometimes 
the moon, glancing down on them with cold un- 
concern from the silver-grey dome above. They 
could hear the songs of night-birds, the loon on 
the creek, the whippoorwill in the persimmon 
tree, the screech owl in the hemlock, the great 
horned owl in the white pine. The wolf’s call 
would echo from the top of Sample Knob, the 
panther’s love song from Jack’s Mountain. The 
little crickets and the katydids would sing 
melodiously, a minor variant to the murmur of 
the forest wind. They would catch faint breaths 
of the pure air, so different from their fetid 
atmosphere. All these familiar sounds and 
odors would make them wish they were back on 
earth; which seemed so near, yet was unattain- 
able. They were doomed to starve spiritually in 
sight of plentitude. Every moment while they 
peered aloft they felt themselves stone dead, 
crushed beneath the inexorable. Their bold, 


dead breaths formed the ice which choked the 
crannies of the sink, an odor like from a morgue 
rose from the unhappy place ; it would be dead- 
ly to any human being breathing it. 

The whole hill was shunned by the canny red- 
men, they knew that they could not help the 
dead who looked out from the abyss ; they 
dreaded lest they stumbled and fell into the 
clutches of this horrid golgotha. The priests 
kept urging them to stay away, painting vivid 
word pictures of the horrors of the region. They 
exhorted the redmen to lead good lives, to pass 
after death into a land of milk and honey, of 
perpetual sunshine, where game of all kinds 
abounded, where there was happy warfare all 
the time. The priests had an added reason for 
keeping their people off the hill ; the sacred cave 
was near at hand, where the gods refreshed 
themselves in the crystal springs, during their 
visits to the world. The giant forces of good 
and evil, the propelling powers of life and 
death, were very near together. It might have 
been properly called the hill of alpha and omega. 
As it was it went by the name of the Hill of 
the Thousand Wishes, meaning all that passed 


through the mind of man. There never was a 
place in the history of mankind that was for- 
bidden but which was eventually violated by 
some foolish soul. A vainglorious Indian king 
penetrated the sacred cave, and was promptly 
punished, an unstable warrior crept to the brink 
of the Gate of the Dead — his history will follow. 
Around the marshy source of Muddy Creek was 
an encamijment of considerable importance. 

A small but warlike tribe called the Bald 
Faced Stags lived there; they had maintained 
their independence for untold centuries. They 
took their name owing to their pale complexions, 
which were slightly darker than those of 
Europeans. Added to this, their eyes were a 
pale blue, their hair brownish. The warriors 
always dressed in deerskins, with the antlered 
heads of the stags as caps, presented an odd and 
never-to-be-forgotten appearance. The chief 
wore the horns of the royal stag ; that is antlers 
with more than five points. They evidently 
sprang from the same stock as the Lenni-Lenape 
and other leading races of Indians, as 
their religion was identical. The women were 
particularly beautiful, some of them having 


light brown, others dun colored hair, always 
with the pale blue eyes. They were attired in 
the skins of female deer or fawns. 

Foremost among the young warriors of this 
strange aggregation was a brave called Stag-of- 
the- Cliff; he was handsome and engaging, a 
noted hunter among a race of great hunters. 
He was a youth of strong passions, that is he 
threw his whole soul into every undertaking, be- 
ing successful with most. As the chief of the 
tribe was feeble and childless, Stag-of-the- Cliff’s 
name was often mentioned as his most fitting 
successor. He was proud of his physical beauty, 
and somewhere obtained considerable gold leaf, 
with which he gilded the stag horns of his hel- 
met. 

It was only natural that such a beautiful 
youth should love the fairest maiden in the 
tribe. Her name was Colia, and she was dis- 
tantly related to the aged chief. This would 
have made her a suitable wife for the bold 
young warrior, in case of his being elected as 
chieftain. Colia was even more blonde than 
most of her race. Hers was a dull, dun color, 
hair, lips, complexion, not at all the vivid blond- 


ness of the Anglo-Saxon, but entrancing from 
its very uniqueness. Her eyes, which were in- 
clined to be small, were more of a pale hazel 
than a blue, but at times they shone with a bluish 
tint, like sun on limestone water. She was very 
tall and slender, wonderfully graceful and alert 
in her movements, a perfect Diana in type. From 
her earliest girlhood she had been attracted by 
the stalwart Stag-of-the-CIiff ; it seemed a fore- 
gone conclusion that they would be married. It 
seemed so inevitable, that neither appeared to be 
in a hurry. 

It was customary every spring for the Bald 
Faced Stags to camp on the main fork of Stand- 
ing Stone Creek, and engage in a salmon fishing 
operation. Thousands of these delicious fish 
were seined, and carefully dried and salted by 
the squaws. These made a pleasant variation to 
the diet of venison, elk meat, wild turkeys and 
heath hens, usually consumed by the warriors 
during the winter months. Muddy Run empties 
into Standing Stone not far from the present 
town of McAlevy’s Fort, and it was several 
miles below this confluence where the fishing 
camp was located. Every evening Stag-of-the- 


Cliff returned to the main encampment in the 
mountains to bring news of the day’s doings to 
the old chief, who was unable to leave his lodge 
house. He went most of the way by canoe; it 
■was almost as easy a trip against the current as 
with it. It was nearly midnight when he re- 
turned, letting his pirogue slip along with the 
tide, while he sat in the stern, bathed in the 
rays of the silvery moon. He had perfect faith 
in his sweetheart, and his thoughts when away 
from her were full of love and hopes for the 
future. 

One night he started on his return voyage to 
the fish camp an hour earlier than usual. The 
aged chief was sleepy, and did not care to listen 
to the story of the day’s catch. The fishing ex- 
peditions were regulated by the moon, conse- 
quently, barring storms, it was always moon- 
light during his canoe trips. He had passed 
out of Muddy into Standing Stone, and was 
floating along past open fields, which had been 
cleared and tilled by Indians for many years. 
Masses of cat-tails and cane, and a few willow 
trees lined the shores, allowing the moon to 
show in all her grandeur on the tranquil scene. 


As he swept along, night herons rose up squawk- 
ing, frogs croaked, and crickets chirped; there 
was just enough sound to swell the harmony of 
the ripples on his graceful craft. 

As he neared a giant forked willow tree, he 
thought he could make out two forms standing 
behind it. They seemed to be very close togeth- 
er, very unmindful of his presence. Fearing 
that they were spies from some hostile tribe, con- 
ferring over some plan of attack, he boldly 
steered his canoe into the reeds which extended 
out fifty feet into the brook. When the pirogue 
struck bottom, he leaped out of it, and drawing 
his tomahawk, advanced on the couple. As he 
drew near to them his surprise and grief knew 
no bounds. Instead of spies, they proved to be 
his false sweetheart held in the tight embrace 
of a strange brave of another Kishoquoquillas 
tribe. 

The moonlight showed this Indian to be Stag- 
of-the-Cliff’s inferior in every way. He was 
short, fiat-faced, heavy- jawed, thoroughly ill- 
favored. 

As the unwritten law of the Bald-Faced- 
Stags was that they should never marry 


outside their tribe, and infidelity was looked 
upon with loathing, he raised his tomahawk and 
cleft the skulls of his false love and her ugly 
charmer. It was all over so quickly that neither 
of them was aware what had happened; per- 
haps they were too dazed to realize the identity 
of their slayer. He had some difficulty in break- 
ing the tight grasp of the dead man, so he cut off 
his arms at the shoulders. Then he collected 
some heavy stones, and fastened them to the 
corpses. He placed them in his canoe, and 
paddled them up-stream to where Muddy and 
Standing Stone come together. There is a point 
where the water is quite deep with revolving 
currents, where it is constantly forming bub- 
bles; it was here that he threw them overboard 
to sleep their last sleep in the muddy depths. 

It was with feelings of satisfaction that he 
floated down to the fishing camp that night. He 
had righted three wrongs, one against his tribe, 
another against honor, still another against his 
personal pride. He slept the sleep of the just. 
The parents and friends of Colia soon missed 
her fair presence and set up lamentations. No 
one had seen her leave the camp, she had 


dropped completely out of sight. A search was 
made, with no avail; it w'as concluded that she 
had been devoured by some skulking panther, or 
run away. The last version was the most popu- 
lar. It was broadly hinted about the camp that 
she had another lover; soon sympathy ran high 
for Stag-of- the- Cliff. He seemed to be much 
dejected. As time wore on a genuine sorrow re- 
placed his sense of injured pride. He missed 
the fair, frail spirit, he almost condoned her 
wrong. He knew that for her sins against the 
tribal honor her spirit had been wafted to the 
underworld. He wondered how she liked it 
there; if she felt lonely for him, and would like 
to see his face again. Perhaps he had acted 
hastily in slaying her. 

The stranger who had broken in on his 
happiness might have put a spell on the beau- 
tiful girl; her presence in his arms might not 
have been voluntary. He would forgive her ; he 
would give anything only to see her again. 
Across the mountains was the baleful hill where 
the Gate of the Dead opened out on the happy 
world. Would he dare to go there, to brave the 
foul marasmus, to break the will of the priests. 


« 



ROAD TO THE NARROWS 















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and gaze into the beloved and lost face, to ask 
her why she had treated him with such lack of 
faith? But he had his position to uphold; he 
was loyal to his religion and its traditions. Six 
months came and went. Not a single hour 
passed but Stag-of- the- Cliff failed to think of 
his departed sweetheart, of his murderous deed. 

At the end of this period the old chief passed 
away ; the bold young warrior, as generally 
expected, was elected as his successor. On the 
night of his election there was great rejoicing 
among the tribe ; it augured well to have such a 
brave young spirit as their leader. Bonfires 
were lit on the highest ridges, their flames 
seemed to mount to the very heavens ! Stag-of- 
the-Cliff wondered if the dead Colia, peering 
from the deep sink, could see these signs of his 
triumph. He wished she were with him, and 
could share the honors, and probably the next 
day become his wife. It cast a gloomy pall over 
his happiness. 

As the night, which was beautifully clear, 
advanced, he was overcome by an unconquerable 
desire to creep across the mountains and risk 
everything for just one glimpse of his doomed 


sweetheart’s face. Was it vanity or love, or 
both, he could not tell, but he must see her on 
the great night of his life. He stole away from 
the merrymakers, and finding a well known 
path, travelled breathlessly across the high 
ridges. As he was starting downward on the 
last one, an eighteen pronged stag, the biggest 
he had ever seen, barred his way. This animal, 
the harbinger of good fortune of his tribe, 
sought to stop him from going to the sink. In- 
stead of feeling a sense of gratitude, and retrac- 
ing his steps, he cleft the handsome creature’s 
skull, and in the moonlight stripped off his hide 
and head, and placed it on his sinewy, manly 
form, the emblem of his new authority. He now 
looked every inch a chief; the hot blood surged 
in his veins, as he thought of his eyes meeting 
the wistful gaze of Colia, away down in her dis- 
mal prison. It was not long before he reached 
the Hill of the Thousand Wishes. The tall pines 
and hemlocks grew so thick that they almost 
shut out the moon’s effulgence. 

As he neared the summit he was nearly pros- 
trated by the foul, reeking effluvia which arose 
from the abyss. He heard doleful cries and 


groans, like souls in torment. He reached the 
brink, got down on his knees, and peered in. 
The full moon was directly above the opening, 
its clear rays shone into every nook and recess 
of the sink. Over against the rim of the tree 
tops he could see the reflection of the ruddy bon- 
fires; the signals of his honor. His heart beat 
fast as he gazed at the many upturned faces in 
the depths below, all looking upwards, with sad, 
wistful eyes, many of them weeping and wailing 
as if their hearts would break. Face after face 
he scanned; all so white, so dead, so cold, with 
grey lips articulating their sorrows. 

At last he saw the beloved countenance in the 
full moonlight; it was ghastly yellow, pitifully 
emaciated, its eyes were focused upon the flam- 
ing reflections on the sky. They turned sudden- 
ly, their dead gaze met his; he looked more 
closely. Beside her, resting against the pit-hole 
in the abyss was the hated stranger, his arm 
around her, in a close embrace. The two 
were united in the world of shades, but were 
they happy? 

If thoughts of the living can penetrate dead 
brains, they surely did on this occasion. Colia 


turned her dead eyes from her murderer, 
from the reflection of his glory, and leaning close 
to the stranger, kissed him passionately. High 
up on the brink of the abyss came a cry 
more hideous and pain-racked than any in the 
underworld. As it was uttered the dead lips 
of Colia kissed her homely adorer again and 
again. 

Staggering to his feet, Stag-of -the- Cliff 
attempted to leave the horrible spot. He 
reeled, striving to save himself from falling into 
the pit by clutching at one of the giant hem- 
locks; he fell heavily, cracking his skull on a 
jagged root, and rolling away into the forest. 

Death came to him slowly, partly from his 
wound, partly from the foul gases of the abyss. 
He breathed his last just as the sun rose and 
the last reflections of the bonfires died down be- 
hind the timber line. Now the Indians say that 
his unquiet spirit has met an awful torment; it 
must watch, during all eternity, the faithless 
Colia demonstrating her love for the ill-favored 
stranger. He cannot turn his eyes from her; 
he cannot get near to her ; he seems to be 
always leaning over the edge of the sink, she 


.53 


THE St'-E:: nOHN MINS 


with her lover in the depths below. When the 
Machtando or Devil emerged, the unhappy shade 
caught him by his reeking garment, imploring 
him to lighten the sentence, but the spirit of evil 
turned his face away. After the evil one had re- 
turned with his beautiful prize. Light of the 
Morning, who languished happily in his arms, 
Stag-of -the- Cliff uttered a cry that is still echo- 
ing down eternity; it was the cry of baffled 
hopes, of envy, malice, despair. 



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